


An Optimistic Tragedy

by ClarionGlass



Series: Good Orchestra [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (or at least it will be from chapter 3 onwards), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Established Relationship, F/M, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, and by that i mean i shoehorn the actual plot into an orchestra setting, and cram it full of references that make me and probably nobody else laugh, and maybe some future ineffable bureaucracy?, as canon-compliant as possible within that, dunno yet but i'll update the tags if needed, flagrant abuse of em-dashes because i'm Just That Kind Of Writer, honestly i'm just writing this for myself and like 5 other people, i guess it can also be tagged as, i mean that's the main thing you have to know going into this, plus some passing references to hastur/ligur, seeing as that does kinda come into it, so it's a fun time ay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClarionGlass/pseuds/ClarionGlass
Summary: Violist Aziraphale Fell and clarinettist Anthony J Crowley, from rival conservatoires at opposite ends of the country, met on one fateful National Youth Orchestra season—on a tour, in fact, where all kinds of things can happen. They're very happy with the way things are going at present—their relationship is flourishing, despite the judging looks of their feud-locked peers, and all seems right with the world.However, it only takes one small thing to bring a whole host of latent tensions in the orchestra to the surface—particularly as it's now three years after Aziraphale and Crowley first met. That's right, it's another tour season, a heady orchestral month where emotions run high, plots grow thick, and both delight and disaster are only a step away. With rumours flying that one particularly headstrong musician will challenge the conductor for rhythmic control of the orchestra, can our boys save the final concert of the tour, or will their performance of Shostakovich's 10th Symphony be more accurately described with the title of Bruckner's 8th—"Apocalyptic"?





	1. Prelude, part one

**Author's Note:**

> So my youth orchestra went on a tour just recently, and we stayed in a place called Ede for a week and a half. Since my brain is absolutely rotten with Good Omens content, it wasn't much of a step to put one extra letter on the end of that, and within a few minutes this beautiful dumpster fire was born. A lot of the stuff about a touring orchestra is ripped directly from my own experience—a lot of it isn't, but I'm an unashamed orch dork, and that finds its way in.  
Anyway, without further ado, here it is! Hope y'all enjoy :)

**Three years ago**

Eve shifted in her chair, her mind clearly on things other than Milhaud and the music in front of her. This was her last season with the national youth orchestra, and she felt like she should be enjoying it—particularly because this was a tour year, and the Akoesticum, deep in the heart of the forests around Ede, was beautiful—but at that moment, she was bored, and hungry. They weren’t allowed food in the rehearsal rooms (a fact that had been reiterated no less than four times in the tour handbook), and break was still a good hour away. 

Her stomach growled, loud enough to distract her desk partner (and incidentally, boyfriend) from the directions that the conductor was giving the orchestra. He raised an eyebrow at her and she blushed.

"Adam!" she whispered defensively, nudging him in the ribs. "You know I didn't have much breakfast!"

Indeed he did, since he'd almost missed breakfast himself for the same reason,* and was just as hungry as she was, albeit without the incriminating stomach rumbles. But whatever her boyfriend was going to reply was left unsaid, as something small and hard hit her in the back of the head. Confused, she picked the rubber up off the floor and turned to look at the wind section, where the well-aimed projectile had come from. 

[* Practising duets, naturally.]

It was clearly the second clarinet (the one who always wore sunglasses—Anthony something, she thought? Eve didn't know him that well, but she'd have sworn she'd heard one of his mates call him "Crawly", whatever that was about) who'd thrown the rubber. Seeing that Eve had turned around, he caught her ear with a " _ psst! _ ", and her eye with a glimpse of something red and shiny that he waved from under the cover of his music stand. 

She spread her hands in an exaggerated shrug. " _ What? _ " she mouthed.

He waved the red thing again. " _ Apple, _ " he hissed, then pointed at her. " _ For you! _ "

Eve shook her head emphatically then cringed, hoping the pantomime-large gesture hadn't attracted the conductor's attention. " _ We're not allowed! _ " she replied. 

Probably Anthony rolled his eyes. " _ Take it! _ " he mouthed back. " _ I can hear your stomach from here!" _

He backed up his words with actions, to clarify what he was saying—a shake of the apple, a tug of the earlobe, a pat of the stomach—but although he was quiet, Eve had no trouble understanding him. His s's, particularly, carried, with a faint sibilance.

Eve wanted to say no, truly, but her stomach growled again, and she felt herself wavering. 

" _ You can't rehearse effectively when you're hungry, _ " Probably Anthony pointed out softly, with a look of I-told-you-so. " _ And what's the worst that can happen? _ "

Eve gritted her teeth, shot a glance to the podium to check that the conductor wasn't looking, then threw caution to the winds and nodded quickly.

Probably Anthony grinned, a flash of sharp canines making him look almost serpentine, then rolled the apple towards her. Red as sin, it was easy to spot, and it slid into the palm of her hand as neatly as if it had been made to fit there. Sighing with relief, she took a few hungry bites, and passed the apple to Adam, who did the same. Gratefully, she took the apple back from him, and put it to her lips again. A pointed cough as she was about to take a bite made her freeze. Slowly, guiltily, she looked up into the icy stare of the conductor. 

"Eve. Adam. I believe you know the rules?"

*

Anthony Crowley (who preferred to go by his last name only) slid his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, jammed his hands into his pockets, and sauntered out into the courtyard. 

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," he commented to the violist who was already standing outside, contemplating the gathering clouds.  _ Aziraphale _ , Crowley remembered, from when the orchestra had got together for their initial briefing back home before they'd left on the tour. He'd overheard Gabriel say it—although why the gentle-looking young man was friends with someone who was objectively the biggest prick in the group, he'd never understand. Still, the name had stuck in his mind. It was a hard name to forget. 

"Hm?" the fair young man asked, startled from his reverie. 

"I said, that went down like a lead balloon," Crowley repeated. After the Eye of God, as their conductor's intimidating glare had become known, had fallen upon them, Adam and Eve had been given a short but severe talking-to in the middle of rehearsal, in front of the whole orchestra, and were unceremoniously told to come back that afternoon. In Crowley's opinion, the punishment far outweighed the crime, but he knew protesting wouldn't do any good. In any case, he preferred to fight The System, as he dramatically termed it, in more subtle ways. 

"Oh, um, yes. Quite," Aziraphale blustered. 

"Bit unnecessary, really," Crowley remarked, his voice casual. 

Aziraphale paused. From his position a few desks in front of the unfortunate pair, he'd seen the apple rolling on its journey. Privately, he agreed with the clarinettist's thoughts. Kicking them out of rehearsal just for doing something harmless to deal with their hunger seemed a bit extreme—but they'd broken the rules, after all, and the rules had to be there for a reason. It was just… ineffable. 

"Well, the rules are the rules, and we did get told a lot," he said aloud. "And you shouldn't have brought it in, strictly speaking."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "What else was I going to do with it? I had it, and her stomach grumbles were annoying me. Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

"That's not the point. It was still the wrong thing to do," Aziraphale said firmly. "Anyway, I didn't catch your name earlier," he continued, so his mouth wouldn't betray him by letting out what he actually thought. 

"Crowley," came the curt reply. 

"Nice to meet you," Aziraphale said politely. "I'm Azira—"

"I know," Crowley interrupted, exactly the opposite of the other's practised courtesy. 

Aziraphale nodded. Silence stretched between them, slightly too loaded to be comfortable. 

"Hey, what happened to your part?" Crowley asked suddenly. 

Aziraphale stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"No, no, I saw you writing during rehearsal, it was like your pencil was about to catch fire," Crowley insisted. "Marked up like anything. But I walked past your stand for break, and your part wasn't there! Don't tell me you lost it, you can't have lost it during rehearsal. Besides, I can't imagine you ever having to pay the fees for a lost part."

Aziraphale looked at his shoes and mumbled something inaudibly. 

Crowley frowned. "Didn't quite catch that."

"I gave it away!" Aziraphale burst out—it would have almost been a wail, if he was someone less dignified. 

Crowley felt his frown melting into an open-mouthed grin of disbelief. "You what?"

"Well, they got kicked out, and the conductor was giving so many notes, and they'd be so far behind in the next rehearsal, they'd be at a constant disadvantage, so I just… took all the notes, and gave them my part."

"What if they lose it?" Crowley asked. Despite his concerned-sounding question, his smile hadn't faded, feeding Aziraphale's defensiveness. 

"They'll give it back, and if they don't, I have my practice part."

Crowley nodded, still looking amused. "You're a dark horse, Aziraphale," he said. 

"Oh, don't," Aziraphale mumbled, embarrassed yet slightly pleased, a rosy blush rising in his pale cheeks. 

"Wouldn't it be funny, though, if I did the right thing and you did the wrong one?" 

"I was only trying to fix what you'd done!" Aziraphale retorted. "It wouldn't be funny at all!"

Crowley shrugged, and after a moment, Aziraphale relaxed as well. Above them, the grey sky started to blossom into rain. 

"Shall we go in?"

"Nah," Crowley replied. "We've still got another five minutes." He never wanted to go into the rehearsal room, overfull of the miscellaneous noises of practising, until he absolutely had to. Besides, the gentle misery of the rain made him feel more grounded, somehow. 

There was another moment's silence, then the drumming of the rain sounded suddenly closer, and he no longer felt the patter of droplets. He looked up in surprise to see the underside of the cream umbrella that Aziraphale had opened without being asked, sheltering them both. Crowley smiled again then, very small and almost shy, as he turned his gaze from the umbrella to Aziraphale's blue eyes. It was the thank you that both of them knew he would never put into words. 

"Another five minutes, then," Aziraphale said with a tiny smile of his own. 

Maybe the rain wasn't the only thing that could make Crowley feel grounded, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Andrei Volkonsky's description of Shosta 10, but the working title absolutely was "good orchestra" lol  
I realise this is a very specific AU, but I'm really just writing it for myself and a few mates, and thought some of the Wider Internets would like to have a peep. Who knows, there might be more of us strange music people out there—and if you're not, and just stumbled across this because you thought the idea looked cool, welcome! Great to have you with us!  
Fair warning, this absolutely isn't finished, and for the four people and a shoelace who know my previous writing attempts, my writing schedule hasn't changed—that is, it happens sporadically, when the mood strikes me, and when I can juggle it with the million and one other things I've got going on. In other words, updates will be incredibly erratic, but if you like this, stick around, because I do really hope to finish it. Having the structure of an actual plot helps (thanks Pterry and Neilman), so all I have to do is just beat it with a stick to fit my weird-ass AU.  
As you can tell, I can't be arsed doing the HTML coding for footnotes, so you'll just have to bear with them as they are. Hope that's not too much of a turn-off, but what can I say, my laziness trumps all.  
Also, the true music nerds among you may have inferred that the Milhaud referred to is La Creation du Monde. Yes, it's absolutely not a full orchestral work, but the (implied, making-sense-to-very-few-people) pun was too good to pass up. Further liberties have been taken in that the UK's national youth orchestra only takes people up to 18yo—I've played fast and loose with that, and am instead using my orchestra's age limit of 25. I'm saying that our boys are about 18-19 during this first tour, Gabriel and co are about 20-21, and Lou (who I don't think has turned up in this chapter, but will in the next) is 22. When we cut back to the present day, just add three years, and it should work out that all of them are still in the orchestra.  
Lastly, a massive thanks must go to iremainimmortalinyourmind, masked-musician and thanks-science on tumblr, who have all been fab ideas-contributors and plot-bouncer-offers during the writing process.


	2. Prelude, part two

"Nice job with the apple, nerd," Bee said approvingly during the lunch break an hour later, giving Crowley a hearty slap on the back that was just firm enough to be painful, yet could still be interpreted as an action between supposed friends. He didn't much like the principal trumpeter, though—or Dagon, or even his roommates, Hastur and Ligur. They all went to the same university, though, so he hung around them as the only people he knew. They didn't much like him either, it seemed, but they appreciated his capacity for causing mischief. 

"Uh, thanks," was all Crowley was able to manage, before a loud and obnoxious buzzing cut him off. At his accusing look, Bee's eyes widened innocently. 

"Gotta keep my lips in shape, ya know. Those solos won't play themselves!"

Crowley sighed. It was Bee's habit of buzzing at any given opportunity—mostly just to be a nuisance, despite any reason given to the contrary—that had led Gabriel to buy a massive novelty fly hat, as part of the ongoing feud between them. The joke had backfired on him, though, as Bee had adopted it with flair, using it to show the difference between which set of pronouns to use. Today was a hat-free day, so she felt female. Most days, though, she wore the fly hat, and preferred they/them. In a rare moment of helpfulness, she'd explained it this way: 

"Right, so if you're talking about me when I'm wearing the hat, think about it like you're talking about me  _ and  _ the fly together. They/them, got it?"

Everyone got it. With Bee, there were no second chances if you didn't. 

It was Bee who'd given him the nickname Crawly, after she'd misheard him introduce himself. Much to his annoyance, it had stuck, and Hastur and Ligur, particularly, took great delight in using it. They rubbed each other up the wrong way, Crowley and the rest of the Royal Northern group, but loyalty had to count for something, right? Even if their praise, even more than the conductor's harsh words, made him feel like he'd done something bad. Crowley had only brought in the apple because, in his words, "fuck The System." He didn't understand why they'd banned food, so, like with any other rule he felt was stupid, he disregarded it completely. He'd already been on a supermarket run in his free time with the orchestra's two trombonists, bringing copious amounts of illicit snacks back to their shared room. Unlike him, however, Hastur and Ligur had also loaded up on cheap booze—a step too far for Crowley, who, as someone who enjoyed his sleep, was painfully aware of having to wake up for early morning rehearsals, and didn't want to add a hangover to the mix. That being said, though, any solid food was fair game. He'd nicked the apple from breakfast, a twinge of conscience making him supplement his stash of chips and chocolate with something healthy. He knew what he'd rather eat, though, so when that violist's stomach had started to protest, he didn't think twice before giving it away. 

Aziraphale was in much of a similar situation, but where Crowley had Bee, Dagon, Hastur and Ligur, he had Michael, Uriel and Sandy—and Gabriel, of course. Like Crowley and his circle, those four hailed from the same university as Aziraphale—and in the same way, the "circle" consisted of a tight-knit group of four, and an outsider who was vaguely tolerated. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and Sandy were all older than him, and had formed a bond through doing cadets at the same time. Aziraphale couldn't think of anything worse than cadets—he much preferred to spend his free time when he wasn't practising with his nose in a book, or sampling the latest menu items at the campus cafe, rather than voluntarily putting himself through military discipline. Still, they'd been kind enough to show him the ropes of how the youth orchestra worked, and since they were the only people he vaguely knew, he felt the Royal Academy types ought to stick together. 

Aziraphale's one relief at not being a close friend of Gabriel's was that he'd been allowed to keep his full name. Much like his constant rival, Bee, the principal oboist was a consummate nicknamer—or at least, he liked to think he was. Gabriel was the one who bestowed "Sandy" upon the much less conveniently-named Sandalphon, to the latter's professed delight. He had a real first name, of course, Sandalphon was just his surname, but nobody had a chance to get to know it before "Sandy" had stuck. Gabriel was also responsible for nicknaming the concertmaster, with logic as follows: if we call the conductor God, then, by extension, the concertmaster is the Voice of God to the orchestra. That, combined with the concertmaster's given name of Matthew, led to the entire string section calling their leader "Mattatron". Aziraphale was glad he'd been left with his rather unwieldy name so far—as much as a nickname from Gabriel would make him feel like part of the in-group, he was quite keen on his full name. It suited him, he thought. In any case, it was far better than the nicknames that Gabriel had for Bee—or that Bee had for Gabriel, for that matter. A typically prickly interaction between the pair happened after the last rehearsal, when the oboist had very deliberately walked over to the brass section and informed the principal trumpeter that they'd been playing sharp all rehearsal. 

Bee had just as calmly flipped their red-tinted shades down, and Gabriel off. "I was watching my tuner the whole time, Gabriel's Hobo, and I didn't go out of the green.  _ You _ were flat."

"Excuse me, flybrain?" Gabriel replied. "I tune the orchestra, I couldn't possibly have been out of tune!"

"Well, well, well, miracles do happen," Bee retorted, "because you absolutely were."

And so it continued, as was typical for the pair. They'd both been perfectly in tune all rehearsal, but that wasn't going to stop them from fighting. The rivalry between Bee and Gabriel had gone on since time immemorial, or at least since before they'd both started in the orchestra. Rumour had it that they'd both lived in London, and had been firm friends, until Bee had moved to Manchester for uni, and Gabriel had been so pissed off that they'd chosen uni over him that they'd argued ever since. The other theory was that they'd had a massive fight over something before the university acceptance letters had come out, and Bee had moved up to Manchester just to spite him. Whatever the cause, the end result was the same—Bee and Gabriel now couldn't speak without arguing, and although they didn't start the feud between RAM and RNCM, they sure as hell weren't going to stop it. It didn't help that both of them were natural leaders, and had each gathered a group of friends at their respective universities who were just as willing to fight the good fight as they were. Bee had fallen in with Lou Morgenstern, the infamous percussionist, and once the older student had graduated, the quick-thinking Bee had quickly assumed his place as leader of their little cabal. Elizabeth Dagon was their closest ally, who despite being a good enough horn player to consistently earn a place in the NYO, was a musicology nerd at heart, and had landed herself the nickname "Lord of the Files". She was quite keen on it, actually, wearing it with the same pride she wore her tatty fur-collared jacket, and shunned her first name, as a defiant one-fingered salute to expectation. Nobody expected the sharp strategic mind that ticked under her tangled ginger ponytail, and she was happy to use that to Bee's advantage. She also had a surprising gift for motivational pep talks. 

Hastur and Ligur came as a pair, and Bee wouldn't have it any other way. They weren't exactly the best conversationalists, but both of them took a savage delight in Bee and Dagon's pranks, and were always willing to do the heavy lifting in such schemes when required. They also were the best at finding cheap, shitty booze that would work well as paint stripper, but got you drunk quickly—a must for any of Bee's parties. 

Somehow, Anthony J Crowley had become the last member of their set. The fresher had wandered into the common room while they'd been plotting, and despite Bee's best glare (which had been known to make grown men quake with fear), hadn’t left. Bee wouldn't trust him as far as they could throw him, but thanks to being in the wrong place at the wrong time—more often now, now that they were the only RNCM representatives on the tour, and Crowley stuck to the only people he knew—he seemed to get caught up in their schemes. Grudgingly, Bee had to admit that his ideas, when he contributed them, were flashes of brilliance—like that thing with the apple. He was a questioner, too, never content to let things settle. And perhaps most importantly, he was a great fall guy, like for that prank with the fireworks and the RNCM concert hall—sure, he might have mentioned something about his sensitivity to light, and potentially going blind from doing this, and there might have been a small hiccup with a fire, but the end result was  _ spectacular _ . Crowley might just be a useful person to keep around, after all, Bee thought, particularly in the fight against Gabriel. 

Gabriel, in turn, had settled in very well at the Academy. He'd joined the Student Union early on in his university career, receiving guidance from a violinist named Matthew Angelin, who, for his position in the Academy's orchestra, and later the NYO, was soon to become nicknamed the Mattatron. A rigidly mentally-disciplined person by nature, Gabriel joined the cadets as well, by chance undertaking the program with a few others from the Royal Academy. Michael Godliman, a harpist, was one of those, and shared Gabriel's businesslike outlook on most things, and had a ruthless practicality that he rather admired. She joined the Student Union shortly after he did, and the pair of them had grand plans for completely reforming the way the department ran—he'd be president in a few years, all going to plan, with her as his VP, and together they'd be unstoppable. 

He was soon introduced to her friend, the cellist Uriel, who for the most part stayed quiet, intently watching the goings-on of the world, before making an incisive comment that made Gabriel smile with pleasure at her directness. She preferred to consider all the options before acting—but when she acted, it was unmistakable, and cut right to the heart of the issue. 

The third member of their little team, Jeremy Sandalphon, quickly became Sandy after he was introduced to Gabriel. His jokes, which to everyone else were rather insipid, left the oboist guffawing, and he quickly welcomed Sandy into their fold—and upon doing so, he learnt that the violinist had a passion for justice and righteous retribution that really resonated with him. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, really did not. After meeting him properly for the first time on the tour, Gabriel had decided that the violist would be his next charity project. He was soft and fussy, very unlike the image of the Royal Academy that Gabriel wanted to project, so he took it upon himself to mould Aziraphale's young mind into a more appropriate shape. They were the soldiers in the Academy's army, after all, and they needed to present their best selves. 

Much as they would have been loath to admit it, Bee and Gabriel had one other thing in common. Neither of them really cared about their “protegees” as people, just means to an end, tools to be shaped into what they wanted. Was it any reason, then, that Aziraphale and Crowley found it so easy to turn away from their conservatoire allegiances, and towards each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeeeeeeee more background about characters who aren't the guys, oh well. We'll get to the present day next chapter!


	3. Moderato ma esitante

**Present day**

“End of the corridor, turn right, down the stairs, buses are outside. End of the corridor, turn right, down the stairs, buses are outside. End of the corridor, turn right, down the stairs, buses are outside.”

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said to the grizzled man giving directions with a smile, viola case slung on his back and suit bag in hand. The man, one half of the married couple who had come along with the tour staff as volunteer residential coordinators*, nodded briskly at him as he passed, as kind as his humourless demeanour would allow. 

[*Read, were in charge of marshalling the ninety-odd student musicians without even getting paid for the privilege.]

"End of the corridor, turn right, down—"

"Caught it the first thousand times, Shadsy," Crowley (who was naturally following behind Aziraphale) said with an eye-roll. "I think I can manage, I'm not a snake or something that you have to corral."

The man met Crowley's eyes with a stern glare. "Got to make sure we don't lose any of you."

Crowley sighed. He'd been trying and failing to get Shadwell to crack a smile in official circumstances for years now, ever since the older man had revealed a talent for working locks that came in very handy when Crowley locked himself out of his dorm room at 1am during a fateful National Music Camp, and the negative result this time around was no exception. 

"Aye aye, Sarge," he said, half glum and half snappily sarcastic, before following Aziraphale out to the buses. 

Outside the concert hall, Shadwell's wife Tracy pointed the way to the buses parked across the street, keeping an eye out for traffic and answering the musicians' adrenaline-worn, post-concert grins with a tired smile of her own. After getting the all-clear that it was safe to cross, Crowley hopped into the middle bus and slid into the seat next to Aziraphale. Slightly rumpled in his concert dress, with his top two shirt buttons undone and his bowtie hanging loose around his neck, Crowley looked knackered in the best possible way. By contrast, Aziraphale had quickly changed into his customary cream button-down, tartan jumper and tan slacks after the concert, and was presented as neatly as it was possible to be for a 45-minute coach trip back to their hotel. 

"Your solo in the Rachmaninov was divine, my dear," he said with a fond smile. "It gets better every time I hear it."

Crowley made a face, though his heart wasn't really in it. "Divine is a bit on the nose, don't you think? It was passable, though, as per usual."

"Oh, pish," Aziraphale replied, taking breath to continue. 

Crowley, however, had other ideas, and cut him off before he could begin. "Nah, nah. Anyway, you lot in the strings didn't sound half bad this evening either."

Aziraphale beamed, unable to keep the joy off his face at what was, from Crowley, an effusive compliment. He'd got to understand the clarinettist very well over the last three years, becoming fluent in the layers of meaning hidden in what he said and didn't say. It wasn't like they'd only communicated while on seasons, after all—they had got to know each other very quickly, it was true, but they caught up occasionally when the rigours of the academic term in opposite ends of the country allowed, and they emailed daily.

Crowley had tried to add Aziraphale on Facebook after the tour, but to his complete lack of surprise, the violist didn't have a social media presence at all. What he found strangely more surprising, considering that this was indeed the 21st century, was the fact that he did have an email address, which he apparently checked regularly. The pair swapped email addresses and parted ways with the promise of keeping in touch. Despite Aziraphale's reassurances, however, Crowley still didn't quite believe that the sweater-wearing young man actually had an Internet connection in his house at all. It was almost a shock, then, when Crowley checked his inbox to find an email with the subject heading of "Tour Recording—Thoughts and Observations," which read:

" _ Dear Crowley, _

_ I'm not sure if you're aware, but the recording of our performance at Wiesbaden has now been made available on the venue's website. I think it was a marvellous performance, even if I suspect we string players had a tendency to rush in the second movement passagework—but I'm sure that was my fault, not that of my peers, I know I always had trouble getting that part to settle when I practised. Perhaps I'm being too critical on myself, but I always like to know of opportunities where I can do better, so if you have any feedback from the recording, please let me know. The wind section sounded wonderful, though, as always—I adore your chorale passage in the third movement, and I hope you enjoy it in the recording.  _

_ I hope you're well. I thoroughly enjoyed our time getting to know each other, and I hope to perform with you again soon.  _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Aziraphale Fell (viola) _ "

When he received the email, Crowley could do nothing but smirk fondly. "Aziraphale Fell (viola)," he'd signed off, as if Crowley wouldn't know who it was who'd written the email; as if there were enough Aziraphales in the world, much less the orchestra, to be confusing; as if there was anyone else on the tour Crowley had got close enough to to even consider exchanging friendly emails with. It was so typical of the violist—long-winded, polite to the point of uselessness, and absolutely, unabashedly heartfelt. He continued to smile as he wrote back. 

" _ I think you forgot to attach the recording? But cheers anyway. _

_ C _ "

The reply, when it came an hour later, was effusively apologetic, and once again, it brought a smile to Crowley's lips. 

" _ Dear Crowley,  _

_ My apologies! Gosh, how silly of me. Here it is:  _ _ https://www.wiesbaden-musikfestival.de/konzerte/30174280/ _

_ Many thanks for bearing with me in my foolishness!  _

_ Yours sincerely,  _

_ Aziraphale Fell _ "

The recording  _ was _ good, Crowley was gratified to find out—and he didn't hear any rushing in the strings at all, despite Aziraphale's worries. And since now, the first step had been made, they both found it very easy to keep writing. After a handful of months, Aziraphale's emails had got a lot more relaxed in tone, and while Crowley had hardly suffered from the curse of professionalism before, his emails were now littered with emojis that Aziraphale found both charming and confusing in equal measure. They'd become much more open with each other, an easy epistolary relationship that flowed as naturally as breathing. Aziraphale told Crowley about Gabriel's passive-aggressive "helpful comments" about his technique and musicianship that ate away at his self-esteem, which were tacitly backed up by the oboist's posse. Crowley, in turn, opened up about the relentless bullshit in the guise of banter he endured from Bee and their cronies—one such prank gone wrong almost destroyed both his future career and the RNCM's concert hall, and none of the others seemed to give two shits, apart from cackling at how funny it was. The two quickly found more common ground with each other than with their peers, becoming close friends who were always happy for the other's successes, and always ready with an ear to vent to in case of misfortune. After a few more months, the Arrangement developed naturally—an agreement that whenever the chance came up, for collaborations, masterclasses or the like, they would seize the opportunity to get to each other's cities and visit. That, along with their continued presence in the national youth orchestra (which, although it only toured every three years, was still a very enjoyable experience for both of them in the standard seasons), renewed their friendship regularly—and allowed it to start blossoming into something more as time went on. 

" _ My dear— _ " Aziraphale wrote once, a year and a half after their first meeting, " _ I just found out that my scholarship application was denied by none other than Gabriel—the committee asked him for a reference to sign off on my community engagement aspect, since he's the head of the Student Union, and he agreed—but he also said that he didn't think I was a good enough player to deserve the scholarship. I overheard Michael and Sandy talking about it in the corridor, and it's made me so worried. Do you think he's right, dear?  _

_ I'm sorry to bother you with this, but I value your opinion much more than I do his—and I trust you to be honest with me, unlike him.  _

_ Best, _

_ Aziraphale _ "

" _ Gabriel's a prick, angel, don't listen to him, _ " Crowley had written back. " _ I know you respect him as a musician, but he doesn't even play your instrument! You're an ace player, and he's talking out of his arse. He's jealous that you managed to get your application in before the deadline and he didn't, I reckon. He makes me 😵😵😵 _ "

The nicknames had started the season before as a joke, but had become very real terms of endearment. The exact nature of their relationship was very hard to pin down—it was hardly physical, and neither of them had said anything in words, but they were definitely more than friends, and incredibly dear to each other. 

And then, the day after Aziraphale had left for a week-long viola course at Oxford, following a season performing in London where the pair had reconnected as easily as if they hadn't spent the last eight months apart, Crowley received the following:

_ "The paths here are lined with apple trees, and it reminds me of you. I miss you desperately, in every particular. _

_ Your angel x" _

Upon reading it, Crowley had in turn gone deathly pale, blushed furiously, then slammed the lid of his laptop shut. He wasn't good with overt displays of emotion and vulnerability, in both their giving and their acceptance, so it took him a good two hours before he felt composed enough to write a reply that completely deflected from the topic at hand.

" _ That's very brief for you, angel," _ he wrote, trying to use humour, however badly, as a defence mechanism. He’d carried a torch for his friend almost since the moment they’d met, but had always battled with the feeling that Aziraphale was too good for him—too kind and soft and classically-educated to want to have anything to do with someone like him. Of course, in getting to know him better, he’d found out that Aziraphale was something of a bastard, which only made him fall harder, and feel more inadequate in comparison. Aziraphale could temper his sarcasm and cutting comments with an innate sweetness, every part of his personality in perfect complement, as opposed to Crowley, who was always dour and snarky. He couldn’t deal with messages like the one Aziraphale had sent him. Deflection was always the best strategy.

Seconds later, a reply pinged back. The violist had obviously been sitting at his computer, waiting for Crowley's response. 

" _ I said all I needed to say, _ " was Aziraphale's simple answer. Which was true, Crowley realised—however much Aziraphale blathered on, he always managed to say exactly what he needed to. And if that took fewer words than usual, so much the better. As he came to that conclusion, Crowley almost missed the new email notification from Aziraphale that popped up on his screen. Clicking it open, his heart nearly stopped beating altogether as he read the words:

" _ Save for, of course, that I love you. _ "

They both knew it, of course. They were inseparable, when they were in the same part of the country, and their spirits seemed somehow entwined even when they weren't. But it had still remained unspoken between them, a little kernel of truth that was precious in its secrecy. Aziraphale, in his tiny room at Oxford, felt his breath catch in his throat as he waited for a reply. He'd spoken too soon and mucked it all up, nagged the little voice in his brain that sounded uncannily like Gabriel. Crowley didn't feel that same desire for companionship, how could he? Crowley was cool, with his leather jacket and sunglasses and swagger, even when he got so deeply invested in a discussion about modernist music, or the latest news about botany or astronomy, that his words tripped over themselves and hissed out adorably. He was too cool to attach himself to someone like Aziraphale, the violist was certain. Crowley liked things casual, he wouldn't want to settle, much less with Aziraphale, who'd completely misinterpreted—

" _ Me too, angel," _ the words on his screen blinked up at him. A new email had come through as he'd fretted, and he stared at it dumbly. Seconds later, another popped up. 

" _ That I love you, I mean. Not that I love myself. Um. That'd be weird. _ "

Aziraphale had just enough time to smile in surprised delight before a third email appeared.

" _ Sorry, I'm panicking a bit because I've never said this before, even over email. But I do love you, Aziraphale, my angel, with every part of my being." _

Aziraphale's fingers had never flown faster over his keyboard as he typed, " _ I've been so worried as well, my dear! I think we've both been a little bit silly, haven't we, overthinkers like us? I'm going to be in Manchester for an audition next weekend—I think we should meet up. I'd very much like to kiss you in person, if you'd be amenable. _ "

The reply came back as quick as thought. 

" _ I literally cannot wait 😚 _ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say present day? Well, present day with even more flashbacks. I don't have the patience to write slow burn, so while it was indeed a slow burn for them, we get to see their relationship unfold in just one chapter.  
The concert link isn't a real link! Don't try to click it, it won't work.  



	4. Andante e misterioso

Almost exactly a year after those emails were sent, there they were, sitting on a bus headed back for Neubrandenberg, very together and very happy. Crowley had his arm slung around the back of their seats, his hand resting gently on Aziraphale's shoulder. Seeing the two of them, Hastur made a face and kicked the side of Crowley's seat viciously on his way down to the back of the bus. Without looking, Crowley raised a hand to casually flip him off, ignoring Aziraphale's reproachful nudge.

"Sorry, I stumbled," the trombonist said flatly, without a trace of remorse in his voice. 

"Hastur, don't be a dick," sighed a young woman from her seat a couple of rows down, where she'd seen exactly what had happened. Hastur just grunted and continued walking, slouching into a seat in the back row. 

"Sorry he's such a homophobic asshole," the woman said, leaning forward to talk to Aziraphale and Crowley. Her name was Anathema, and she was a cellist they both vaguely knew, studying at the Guildhall and thus removed from the RAM/RNCM feud. "You two are a cute couple, regardless of his bullshit."

"Surprisingly, he's not actually homophobic," Crowley replied lightly. "He and Ligur have been a thing for years, which is good for them, but it's also shit, because I've had to share a room with them quite a bit, and they're not ashamed of anyone knowing what they've got going on, or how often they go at it, or how disgustingly loudly. He hates us because he's a hateful prick, not because he's anti-gay. We  _ are  _ cute, though, and he  _ is _ an arsehole, so you got all the rest right."

"I don't think he likes seeing anyone happy," Aziraphale chimed in. "It's nothing personal, he just doesn’t like anyone outside his little group—and Crowley used to be one of that set, so Hastur thinks he’s a traitor, and that I've stolen him away."

"He rescued me, more like," Crowley said, "like I rescued him from Gabriel and co. Wankers, the lot of 'em."

"But they're all possessive—"

"Possessive arseholes."

Aziraphale shot Crowley a cool look at the interruption, which he ignored, then continued, "—so we seem to have put them all offside, to use the sporting metaphor. None of them seem to like us that much anymore."

"Really? I couldn't tell," Anathema said dryly, her sarcasm earning her an approving smile from Crowley. "Still sucks, though. Agnes always said there'd be inter-con troubles on a tour, and that there's usually a romance wrapped up in it somehow. It's just pretty shitty that it does happen."

As Crowley nodded in agreement, Aziraphale's eyes lit up hungrily. Agnes certainly wasn't as rare a name as something like Aziraphale, of course, but it wasn't exactly common, either—and there was only one Agnes whose name was strongly linked to the youth orchestra program.

"Agnes?" he asked carefully. "As in—"

Anathema sighed. "As in Nutter, yes. She's my cousin."

"Oh, my dear!" Aziraphale burst out excitedly. "What's she like? I've never met her, but I've heard so much—"

At Crowley's subtle cough, and seeing the look on Anathema's face, he reined his enthusiasm back in. "I'm sorry, dear, I don't mean to pry, or be invasive, and you've probably dealt with enough of these questions. Feel free to brush me off—oh, I do apologise!"

Anathema smiled despite herself. Agnes Nutter was the star of the NYO programs—a talented bassoonist, she'd been spotted by a number of orchestral scouts during her last seasons, and was slotted into a job with the London Phil as soon as she graduated from her Masters degree. Having left the year before Aziraphale and Crowley joined the orchestra, she was something of a living legend to the current group of musicians, and her cousin was tired of answering constant questions about her. If it was anyone other than Aziraphale who'd asked, she would have answered with a sharp retort, but the violist radiated a wholesome sincerity that she found she couldn't snap at.

"She's alright," she said instead. "A bit weird sometimes, but who isn't, I guess. I don't see her that much, honestly, but she gave me this list of predictions of stuff that would happen on tour before I left. So far, she hasn't been wrong once."

She made a face at that, which the two boys couldn't help but notice. 

"What's that look for?" Crowley asked. 

"She said I'd hook up with Newt Pulsifer at the official afters do, if not before," Anathema replied. "He's Adultery Pulsifer's younger brother. Agnes had a short and messy fling with good ol' Adultery on her last season. He cheated on her, then broke it off and was a complete dick about it, so I dunno why she thinks I'd like his brother. But I can't deny her track record so far—I just hope that's the one thing she's wrong about."

"Well, the exception proves the rule," Aziraphale said quickly with a reassuring smile. 

“Hang on, wait,” Crowley interrupted. “‘Adultery’ Pulsifer? You mean Tho—”

“Yeah, him,” Anathema said, cutting him off before he could form the full name. “Family nickname. What else am I going to call the asshole who broke my cousin’s heart?* He doesn’t get to have a proper name anymore.”

[* Although, it should be said, Agnes wasn’t so heartbroken that she couldn’t pitch an entire box’s worth of roofing nails through her ex’s bedroom window, one by one, with unerring accuracy, before moving to London to start her new job with the Philharmonic. It was a minor miracle that nobody was injured, and the Pulsifer family didn’t press charges.]

Crowley nodded approvingly. "A good nickname is such petty vengeance, I love it. The gluing-coins-to-the-pavement of the spite world."

“It’s not petty if it’s justified," Anathema said. 

Aziraphale shuddered. "Don't let Sandy hear you say that, or you'll get drawn into a conversation you definitely won't want to be a part of."

"And you can guarantee we won't step in to rescue you," Crowley added. "Well, the angel here might try, but I'll stop him, for his own safety."

"I've never had a conversation with him," Anathema said, thinking about the obsequious leader of the second violins. "I've always found him a bit creepy, honestly. Is he really that bad?"

"Worse," Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. "He's a bit heavy-handed with the whole 'smiting the wrongdoers' ideology, and he'll go on about it for hours. There's not a modicum of subtlety or nuance in his worldview at all."

"Sounds like you get along famously," Anathema said with a smirk. 

Aziraphale shook his head in disgust. "Never liked him, not even in the beginning, when we first met. If he wasn't a musician, he'd be born to be some middle-level bank manager, who'd delight in every excuse to make his underlings' lives a little bit more miserable."

"Wahoo to that," Crowley grinned, and held his palm out so Aziraphale could high-five it. "Have I told you I love it when you get bitchy, angel?"

Aziraphale duly completed the high-five, and took a tiny bow from his seated position. "You have, my dear, many times. I still maintain I'm not bitchy, though—just accurate. Anyway, can we please change the subject to more pleasant things than the most irritating of our colleagues? Anathema, is that a bicycle pin on your bag?"

It didn't take the pleading in Aziraphale's eyes for her to take up the new conversational thread. 

"Yeah, I ride," she said with a smile. "I found Phaeton at the back of an old charity shop, and fixed her right up. She has her tetchy moments, but she's pretty reliable—and getting around London on a bike is so much easier than dealing with traffic, ya know? I did get into an accident once, with some old posh car, but he hit me, so the insurance paid for repairs. Anyway, I was fine, so no harm done, I guess."

"Good to hear," Aziraphale said. "I enjoy a good cycle in the fresh air, but Crowley likes old cars, don't you, dear? You'll have to watch out for cyclists when you're driving!"

Crowley stuck out his tongue at that. "I've never hit anything in the Bentley and I never will, angel, so when I get my good car, I'll be just the same."

"You say that, and then you attempt to go down Oxford Street at ninety miles an hour!"

"Hang on a sec," Anathema frowned. "You have a Bentley, and that's not your good car?"

"Right, I can see the confusion," Crowley said with a grin, as if his aim hadn't been to create the confusion in the first place. "I  _ want _ a Bentley. 1926, restored as good as new, all the bells and whistles, with a James Bond bullet hole decal on the back window. What I  _ have _ is a tiny little second-hand Fiat with no aux, and a jammed cassette player—and it's not even my tape stuck in it! Previous owner is bloody lucky I like Queen, otherwise they'd have had a real hard time shifting it. It's a good runner, mostly, but sometimes more is more, y'know? I just call it the Bentley in the hope that one day it'll get the hint, and I'll wake up and it'll have magically transformed. You bloody cyclists won't know what's hit you, then!"

Anathema blinked. 

"Yes, he's always like this," Aziraphale sighed, fond and exasperated. "Take no notice, he'll snap out of it soon. It doesn't help that he's exhausted, as well—it's been a long tour for all of us, I think."

"M'not tired," Crowley protested. 

"Of course not," Aziraphale said with a raised eyebrow. "It must have been someone else who was telling me they were going to sleep the whole way to Montpellier tomorrow."

Instead of answering with words, Crowley just poked his tongue out again. 

"Oh, very mature," Anathema teased. 

"Oi, you, stay out of this!" he retorted, his hooked grin taking any sting out of his words. "This is a private lovers' tiff, ta very much!"

The banter, light and good-natured, continued the whole way back to the hotel. It was only when they arrived and had all got up that Aziraphale noticed the folded piece of paper that had drifted under his seat. It certainly wasn’t his, but as the others headed off the bus, he picked it up anyway—he suspected it might have been Anathema’s, a suspicion confirmed when he turned it over and saw the name written on it in spidery cursive. However, in the few seconds it had taken to retrieve the paper, she’d gone on ahead, lost in the crowd of musicians heading into the hotel. It would be easy to give it back to her tomorrow morning, though, he thought, and went to tuck it into his pocket. As he readjusted his grip on it, juggling his viola case and suit bag, a flap of the note unfolded, leaving its contents clear to be seen. 

“ _ Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Tour Prophecies _ ,” the first line of the note read, and Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat. There were plenty of more unsavory types in the orchestra who he wouldn’t want getting anywhere near that simple A4 sheet—maybe he’d hang onto it for a little while longer…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A faint hint of plot is stirring! It'll all kick off next chapter...


	5. Allegro agitato

Exemplifying the “more unsavory types” was none other than the orchestra’s principal percussionist. The thing about Lou Morgenstern that you had to remember was that he was an arsehole, such an arsehole—but to talk to, he was electric, charismatic and charming, and he could make you feel like you were the only one lit up in a dark room. He had a knack for subtly drawing you into alignment with his opinions, doing it in such a way that you thought it was entirely of your own accord. And besides, he was probably the best instrumentalist in the orchestra, and everyone knew it. To be acknowledged by him—to have one of those radiant smiles directed at you—could make you feel on top of the world. Unfortunately, he and the conductor often had wildly different ideas of what the "correct" tempo of a piece should be. Anyone else would have backed down and submitted to the conductor's beat, but Lou was nothing if not headstrong. He stuck to his guns, pulling the brass section with him while the strings followed the conductor, more often than not throwing the whole orchestra into chaos. It was usually a fifty-fifty split as to who would accept the other's tempo in rehearsal, although they presented a united front for the concerts. Still, tension was simmering, and unbeknownst to most of the orchestra, was about to come to a head. 

In Montpellier, before the third-last concert of the tour, Crowley left the routine soundcheck and headed for the green room with his clarinets in hand, ready to get a quick bite of dinner before the concert started. He’d be spending the time with Aziraphale, who throughout the tour had been keeping a review system of the catering in all the different venues, and the thought of the blonde either sighing with pleasure, or skewering the caterers' efforts with a few pithy remarks, did a lot to buoy his spirits. His mood abruptly dropped, however, when he saw Hastur and Ligur skulking in the shadows of the corridor. They were champion lurkers, those two, and having them waiting for him couldn’t bode well at all. It was too much to hope that they’d let him pass—as he neared them, Hastur shot out a hand and grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him into the same dark alcove they were standing in.

“It’s gonna happen in the last concert,” he said without preamble, his voice low and menacing. “Lou’s tired of always playing nice, so he’s gonna go his own way, and bugger to whatever Her up there reckons the right tempo is.”

The silence that followed that statement seemed to demand a response. 

“Okay…” Crowley said slowly, in lieu of anything else to fill it. “Uh, what’s ‘it’?”

“The War,” Hastur said with dark glee. 

“Sorry?”

Hastur huffed in exasperation. “Between us and the strings. Between Lou and the arsehole with the baton.”

“We’re gonna follow Lou,” Ligur clarified. “Hastur, me, Bee, Dagon—we’ve got the brass sorted, everyone’s in on it. But we need more in if we’re gonna have a chance of getting the strings to follow us.”

“Winds'll be the tipping point,” Hastur chipped in. “And that’s where you come in, flash boy.”

Crowley’s expression resembled that of a startled trout.

“You’ve gotta get the winds to follow,” Hastur said with a roll of his eyes.

“...Uh-huh,” Crowley said slowly, then frowned. “Why me?”

“Aren’t you the one holding the section together?” Ligur sneered. “They all follow you, and you’re the only one keeping them in line? That’s what you kept telling us last night, anyway.”

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses, regretting every decision he’d made that had led him to this point,* but trying to brazen it out nonetheless. “Yeah, f’course. The backbone of the winds, me.”

[* Particularly the three decisions that had ended with him saying to the others "yeah, pass us more of that Advocaat!”]

“Good. So you bring them with us,” Hastur growled. “It’s an honour, innit? Getting a whole section to play right. Ligur’d give his right arm to be the one to do that.”

Ligur grunted. For his part, Crowley just shifted his weight awkwardly from his right foot to his left.

Sensing the clarinettist’s discomfort, Hastur stepped closer, right into Crowley’s personal space. “Are you with us?” he demanded. “You’re on the back rows, so you’ll go with what you hear, right?”

Crowley swallowed nervously and nodded.

“Good.”

Hastur turned away and slunk back to the green room, closely followed by Ligur. “Flash bastard better do what he says,” Crowley overheard him grumbling. “D’you trust him?”

“Nah,” came Ligur’s response. “Do you?”

“Nah.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” Ligur said, the last thing Crowley heard before they got out of earshot.

*

“Angel, we have a problem,” Crowley said, sliding into the seat across from Aziraphale at dinner.

“Yes, we do,” Aziraphale replied calmly. “You were late, so you missed out on the gnocchi. Terrible shame, my dear, because it was fabulous.”

“It’s worse,” Crowley said glumly. "'Member how we all went to Dagon's room for a drink last night? After we got back from the snacks run?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, and raised an arch eyebrow. "Why, don't you remember much of it, yourself? Well, all I can tell you is from up to when I went back to our room at 11, seeing as I'm a responsible musician who doesn't stumble into their shared room at 2am, three sheets to the wind."

He folded his hands primly and looked at Crowley with a twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes. 

"I'm being serious!" Crowley snapped, worry making him uncharacteristically sharp. "Lou and Bee and Hastur and the rest of their lot are plotting, and I've been dropped in the middle of it because I wanted to act the big man last night!"

The teasing edge to Aziraphale's expression softened, and he looked at Crowley seriously, a concerned furrow between his eyebrows. "What happened, my dear?"

"They want to go with Lou's tempo. In the final concert, they're going to fight the Almighty and go Lou's way."

"They'll tear the orchestra apart!" Aziraphale breathed. 

Crowley nodded despondently. "Yup. It'll be a catastrophe. And because of all the shit I was telling them last night, about me being the best one in the winds, y'know, the one they all follow, they want me to go with their tempo and drag the rest of the winds with them."

"I told you that no good would come of you talking yourself up to that crowd, didn't I?" Aziraphale said reproachfully.

"I wanted to look good to Lou," Crowley moaned, to Aziraphale's eye-roll. "And make Bee and the others back off a bit! You wouldn't understand, angel, but if Lou likes you, it's like the official stamp of approval for them, so they'd just leave me alone!" He shook his head sharply. "Anyway, it's done now, so we just have to deal with it."

"We need to tell her," Aziraphale said, the worried furrow between his eyebrows deepening. 

"Are you mad?" Crowley burst out. "She'd just stick to her guns, and it'd sound even worse!"

"Then what do you suggest?" Aziraphale asked, slightly waspishly.

"We go for one of the other musicians who actually has an effect on the tempo as well," Crowley said. "Convince them to stick to one tempo, so they'll pull lots of others with them, so the whole thing sounds unified."

Aziraphale nodded. "The right tempo, of course. Her tempo."

Crowley remained silent at that, and Aziraphale drew breath sharply, scandalised. "My dear! You can't possibly be suggesting the whole orchestra follow Lou!"

"Come on, angel, even you have to agree that it's more exciting faster," Crowley pressed. 

Aziraphale frowned. "But it's not the conductor's tempo," he grumped, "and we have to follow her. It's our job as the orchestra!"

"But it all sounds like it could come from  _ The Sound of Music _ when she does it that slow!" Crowley protested, with a mulish glint in his eye that was perceptible even through his sunglasses. "You can't tell me it sounds better her way, honestly."

"It doesn't matter what sounds better, it's what our duty is as orchestral players!" 

"To make bad music?"

Aziraphale folded his arms crossly, recognising that his boyfriend was every bit as stubborn as he was, and neither of them would have a chance at winning the argument. He huffed a short sigh, and decided to tactically divert the subject. "Anyway, you haven't told me who this mystery tempo-setter is."

Crowley smiled, baring a hint more teeth than usual. "I overheard Mary Loquacious* on the phone just outside, talking to our esteemed pianist, and I thought, duh! Who else has got more control over the tempo than the soloist in the concerto?"

[* Mary Hodges was one of the NYO staff. Responsible for the thousand-odd posts in the official tour Facebook group every evening, reminding everyone what time and where to meet, what to bring for each day, and the like, she'd earned herself the nickname of Mary Loquacious for her troubles.]

Aziraphale nodded slowly. "Yes, he would be able to do it. Shouldn't we let him decide for himself, though?"

"And risk it all going to hell?" Crowley said, eyebrow raised. "Nah, angel, we need to get him properly on board."

"With the right way, of course."

Crowley pursed his lips, meeting Aziraphale's steady blue gaze. "Okay. Okay, angel, how about this. We each have a chat to him. We don't tell him about what's going to happen, but we can try and sway him one way or the other. That way, it's his choice, but without knowing it, he's heard the reasoned arguments for each tempo, and he'll pick the better way. Plus, let's make a bet of it! Whoever turns out to be wrong has to pay for our next meal out. Fair?"

Aziraphale considered that for a second, then nodded again. "Alright, dear, it does seem fair." He held out a hand for Crowley to shake. "May the best man win!"

Crowley smirked. He knew he'd hooked Aziraphale just by using the phrase "reasoned arguments," and bringing food into it only sealed the deal further. "You know I will," he said with the cockiness that Aziraphale found just a little bit charming, and raised the proffered hand to his lips.

"You won't distract me that easily, you wily old snake!" Aziraphale retorted, but his delighted grin, and the faint hint of pink in his cheeks, gave the lie to that statement. "Come on, we've got a concert to prepare for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last, we get to the Real Plot, as mentioned in the summary! Just a warning—this is the last of my fully written chapters (I've got most of the one after the next one, but not the next one itself...) so updates may slow down. Anyway, hope you're all enjoying so far!


	6. Parlando e giocoso

The pianist they'd been working with on the tour was a young American prodigy by the name of Warlock Dowling. Although he was only seventeen, he’d had a recording contract with Deutsche Grammophon for the last two years—and somehow, he was still remarkably down-to-earth, with a wicked sense of humour. Crowley loved the kid, just because he’d told Hastur, to his face, that the trombonist “smelt like poo.” It was during a particularly heated game of 300, so it didn’t really mean anything—insults flung during card games weren't to be treated as genuine—but Crowley still dined out on the look on Hastur’s face for weeks. For an internationally-recognised soloist, Warlock spent a lot of time with the orchestra. He was their age, after all, and a seventeen year-old guy is a seventeen year-old guy, regardless of piano-playing talent. His alternative was staying with his mum, though, which probably helped matters as well. Harriet Dowling absolutely wasn't a music person, but she supported her son's endeavours with everything she had. Since the young soloist only spent about forty days per year at home in America, Harriet toured with him for a number of his performance engagements, otherwise she'd hardly get to see him—and such a hectic touring lifestyle would take its toll on such a young performer, so she didn't want her son to be travelling on his own for the entire year. She stayed out of his way for the most part, though, and he had a fair amount of independence, which he exercised as much as he could. His one line drawn was that he wouldn't go out late—not just because he was underage, but because he was very aware of what it took to keep in condition, with his busy touring schedule—but he enjoyed a good game of cards in transit, and was always happy to chat if you approached him. That, Crowley thought, would be the best way to get the soloist’s ear about the tempo. Or maybe it would be easier if he spoke to someone Warlock already knew… 

“Nan, come on," he pleaded over breakfast the next morning. "It's just an introduction, I'd like to play cards with you all!"

The bassoonist he was badgering shot him a cool look over the rims of her glasses. Cool looks were Nanette Ashton's speciality—they were as much a part of her aesthetic as her crisp blazers and pearl-drop earrings, and she dealt them out with wild abandon. She was kind, certainly, and adored the younger members of the orchestra—but she took absolutely no shit from anyone. Crowley had known her since their school days, bonding over being the only two gingers in their year group. They'd drifted apart over the last few years, thanks to life taking them on different paths, but even if they were no longer joined at the hip, they were still friendly. It was a testament to how long she'd known the clarinettist that he was able to call her Nan without any repercussions, other than a twinkle of amusement in her eye. Most importantly to Crowley at that moment, though, was that she was part of the group that regularly shared a game of cards with Warlock. 

"Anthony," she said firmly, her gently-lilting accent not doing anything to soften the rebuke he knew was coming. "Anthony J Crowley. You're twenty-two years old.  _ He _ is seventeen. You're an adult, you don't need me to be your mother, making playdates for you. Talk to him yourself!"   
“But Nan!” Crowley protested. “I don’t wanna look weird, you know? Just walking up to him unannounced, it’d be creepy. It’s not creepy if a mutual friend introduces us.”

Nanette quirked an eyebrow. “You  _ have _ talked to him before, haven’t you?”

Crowley shook his head, and she sighed. “Alright. We’re on the buses today, we’ll probably get a game of Big 2 going, or Mafia, or something. If you sit around there, you’re perfectly welcome to join. I can introduce you, but you’d have to actually open that smart mouth of yours and join the conversation. Do you think you’ll be alright with that?”

“Yes,  _ mother _ ,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not a complete social moron, despite appearances.”

“Despite appearances,” Nanette agreed, smirking. “I didn't think you were the type to get starstruck, O Mr Carefully-Cultivated Image of Tall, Dark and Brooding—but then again, remind me how long it took you to write back to that cute angel of yours after he sent you that mushy email?”

“Didn’t we agree to never bring that up again?” Crowley asked despairingly. 

“Babe, if anyone has the right to bring that up, it’s me. I mean, I’m practically your therapist. You talk to me when you’ve got a problem with something, and pretty much only then.”

Crowley spluttered. "I—"

Nanette raised a single finger to cut him off. "I'm not saying I mind, it's just a pattern you fall into. Honestly, I'm pleased I'm your go-to—it means I know you won't get any worse advice than the things you dream up yourself."

Crowley shook his head with a mixture of annoyance and amusement, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Don’t insult me, babe, or I’ll call the whole thing off,” Nanette threatened sweetly. "And remember, the onus is on you to actually make the conversation happen, yes? The pair of you are too old for me to hold your hand all the way through it.”

"Fine," Crowley said, crossing his arms and scowling half-heartedly. 

"Thank you, Nanette, for setting up a game of cards where I can talk to Warlock without feeling like a creeper," Nanette said, mock-sincere as she mimicked her friend. "That's okay, Crowley, and I know that despite my pointed jokes, you're capable of having a proper conversation, and you've got absolutely nothing to worry about."

Crowley smiled at that, and stood to wrap Nanette in a brief hug. "Yeah. Thanks, Nan, for real."

"You're welcome, babe. Now go, finish breakfast with Aziraphale, you're not exactly subtle about hiding the fact you want to. See you on the bus!"

*

Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale was engaged in a similar conversation a few tables down with his stand partner, Francis Gardiner. He was good friends with Nanette—and part of the same cards-playing group, so was Aziraphale's chosen way into Warlock's circle. A staunch believer in the "the more the merrier" approach, and being less prickly than Nanette, he'd readily agreed to Aziraphale joining their likely game on the bus.

"Are we swapping back breakfast partners, then?" Francis asked as he saw Crowley approach them, his smile as broad as his West Country accent. 

"It looks like it, dear boy," Aziraphale replied. “Thank you for having this little chat with me, I do appreciate your helping me out.”

Francis stood to go, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Not a problem! Always happy to lend a hand to a brother violist.”

Aziraphale smiled back in gratitude, and his stand partner headed off towards the buffet table. With a nod to the departing Francis, Crowley slid into the vacated seat and grinned. 

“I’m sorted, angel—spoke to Nan, and she’s got me an in with Warlock.”

“Cards on the bus trip?” Aziraphale asked calmly. “Me too, dear.”

At the buffet table, Nanette and Francis shared an amused smile as they watched their very unsubtle friends conspiring. 

"They're up to something?"

"Of course," Nanette replied. 

"Think it'll work?"

Nanette smirked. "God, no."

*

Sure enough, a game of Mafia started up in the back rows of the bus, and Crowley and Aziraphale became keen participants. Through pure chance, Aziraphale found himself a mafioso, and Crowley drew the doctor's card—and through equal amounts of chance and planning, Aziraphale, Crowley and Warlock were the three final players. 

Aziraphale was surprisingly good at Mafia for someone who'd never played it before. Having the heart of a bastard, wrapped in a cashmere-soft appearance, made him the perfect Mafia member—people trusted him, despite themselves, and he'd managed to deflect almost all suspicion away from himself. Crowley, on the other hand, had the uncanny ability to put people offside with just a glance, but through judiciously choosing to heal himself, had made it through this far. 

The village meeting after Francis “died,” as expertly narrated by Nanette, was tense. Crowley and Aziraphale would each vote to lynch the other—they were certain of each other’s roles—so it fell to Warlock, as the one remaining ordinary villager, to decide the game’s outcome.

“I’m the doctor,” Crowley said quickly, before Aziraphale had a chance to argue his case. “You know the doctor’s still alive, someone’s been saved in the last few rounds, and I won’t lie, it’s usually been me. I know I’m in danger, I know you don’t trust me, but it’s cards on the table time.”

“My dear, if you really were the doctor, why didn’t you say anything before?” Aziraphale asked. “If you were already saving yourself, you knew you were in danger. You wouldn’t have put any more of a target on your back by revealing it. Warlock, dear boy, you should keep voting as you have been before, and we’ll win the game.”

Crowley frowned, recognising that the gambit about sticking to the status quo wasn’t so much about the game as it was the concerto’s tempo. “Whatever I say isn’t going to convince you, if you’ve already made up your mind that I’m the Mafia,” he said. “But I reckon that going with what your gut feels is right—even if it isn’t how you’ve always done things.”

Warlock looked at them sceptically, a flicker of confusion clear in his eyes. The young pianist knew that something else was going on, something that wasn’t related to Mafia—but with no other context, all he could do was focus on the game. Sparing him from having to make a decision based on those cryptic clues, the bus lurched to a halt at that moment, having arrived at their hotel. Before the game could end properly, the bus filled up with chatter and the sounds of people dragging bags and instrument cases off the overhead shelves, and the group of players were swept up in the crowd.

Aziraphale and Crowley managed to stick together as the others scattered, lost in the swirl of musicians collecting their suitcases from the belly of the bus, or swarming the tour organisers to pick up their room keys.

“Do you think we’ve done enough?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “Will we make a difference, one way or the other?”

“Dunno, angel,” Crowley replied. “Probably not, but we can always chat to him again.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “I hope so.” 

*

The assumption that both Aziraphale and Crowley had made, however, was that Lou would have any concern with the concerto at all. He didn't. No, his real target was the symphony, Shostakovich's 10th—and the one person in the orchestra who had the power to change the tempo of that, once it had started, was someone none of them had thought of. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this was a hard one to write—it took ages, for some reason, but it's done now. It might undergo some editing over the next few days, but I wanted to get it up. The next chapter is pretty much already done, and I'm getting an idea of the overarching structure of the next three or four chapters, so updates should be coming soon :)


	7. Scherzando

Adam Young was bored. This wasn't exactly a rarity for the seventeen year-old piccolo player, but this time, he was homesick to boot. He wanted nothing more than to facetime his dog at home in Oxfordshire (a black-and-white terrier with a turned-out ear, naturally named Dog, who was given to Adam on his eleventh birthday and was loved to pieces), but his parents were away on holiday that weekend, and as clever as Adam knew his pet was, the canine still hadn't mastered answering a call without human assistance. What was even worse was that he knew all the over-18s had gone out, spreading out across the many bars in the area, and he was stuck in the hotel thanks to the stupid 10pm curfew. He slumped back on his bed, legs hanging over the edge, and kicked a sneakered foot idly. 

A knock on the door made him sit up with a grin, and he hurried over to open it. 

"Pep! Wensley! Brian! Get in, the lot of you!"

With matching grins, his school friends went into the room, laden down with bags of crisps and bottles of soft drink. They’d called themselves the Them since primary school, and Adam was definitely their ringleader. Even though he and Brian shared the room, Brian wouldn't dream of coming in without knocking—not just because of the usual hazards of walking in on a teenage boy who had the door shut, but because there was something about Adam that just commanded respect. He had an unmistakable easy confidence, a quick mind, and an indefatigable optimism, and carried himself through the world as if nothing could bother him. 

The Them settled themselves down in the room, Adam a king seated on a corner of his own bed, and the others just as comfortable on the room's sofa. Brian, who always had his priorities in order, cracked into the packet of Haribos and took a handful, placing the rest of their snacks in the middle of the circle. As he did so, Pepper nudged Wensleydale in the ribs. 

"Ask him!"

"Yeah, yeah, let me get settled first!" Wensleydale replied, opening his bottle of orange juice. 

"Ask me what?" Adam asked curiously.

“Well, Adam,” Pepper began solemnly, her eyes dancing. “We’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Very important questions,” Brian cut in, mouth full of gummy bears, then swallowed to be able to reiterate, “super important.”

Pepper nodded her agreement. “And you need to answer them as honestly as you can. Your life might depend on it.”

Adam widened his eyes in mock-fear. “I’ll do it.”

“Right,” said Wensleydale, who'd put his juice down and had turned just as fake-stern as Pepper. “First of all, what’s your favourite kind of lettuce?”

Adam burst out laughing. Of all the questions he’d been imagining, none of them actually serious, that one still took him by surprise.

“Go on, what is it?” Pepper pressed, her expression as deadly serious as it could be when you’re trying not to laugh.

“Alright, alright, hold up, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition,” Adam retorted.

It was the classic set-up. 

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” the other three chorused gleefully. A history project when they were eleven had led to an afternoon of watching Monty Python, and countless games in the woods, wreaking havoc as the British Inquisition. Pepper’s sister had come home covered in pondweed after one such escapade, much to the dismay of her mother, and the gang had subsequently been discouraged from further recreating the witch trials. The trials might have ended that day, but the love of Monty Python was eternal.

“So?” Pepper said again.

“Um, I dunno,” Adam said. “Cos?”

This was met with murmurs of approval from the others.

“You see, actually, they feed cos lettuce to the dugongs at the zoo,” Wensleydale said. 

Adam shrugged. “Huh! That’s cool.”

“Next question,” Pepper said firmly. “You’re at a bar. You see a guy, or a girl, I guess, whoever you'd like, you get chatting, you have a couple of drinks. They're absolutely normal, you’re hitting it off just fine, having some good conversations, then they say: ‘I’ve got two pet dugongs at home, do you want to come back to mine and see them?’ Do you go with them?”

“Just to see the dugongs,” Brian clarified. “It’s not a weird sex thing.”

Adam didn’t take so much as a second to think about it. “Of course I would!”

“Nobody’s said no to that one,” Wensleydale said. 

“You took a while thinking about it,” Brian mused.

Wensleydale frowned. “I didn’t actually say no, though, did I?”

“Anyway!” Pepper interrupted, heading off the imminent scuffle. “Last question, Adam, and this one actually has a right answer. Are you a dugong or a manatee?”

Adam blinked. "Uh. A dugong? I dunno, I've never really thought about it, but that feels right."

"Correct!" Pepper crowed, and the other boys clapped. 

"What's the difference?" Adam asked, intrigued. 

"There are lots," Wensleydale said, happy to explain, since he'd been the one to Google the answer, "but the main one is that dugongs mate for life, and manatees play the field."

“Huh,” Adam said, nodding. “Are you guys all dugongs?”

“‘Course,” Pepper replied confidently. “We’ve gotta ask the others in the orchestra, though, I bet there are some manatees around.”

"What about ol' Greasy Johnson?" Brian asked. "Bet you a fiver he's a manatee—he's got big manatee energy, if you ask me."

"You're on," Adam said, sticking his hand out for Brian to shake. 

"Actually, his room's just down the corridor from mine," Wensleydale piped up. "We can go ask him, if you want."

Adam grinned. "Wicked!"

*

The Them only made it a short way down the corridor before Adam stopped them with a raised hand and a quizzical frown. 

"Do you hear something?" he asked. 

The rest of the Them strained to listen.

"I don't think there's anything—" Wensleydale began, before a furious litany of curses started up from inside the room they'd just passed. 

All thoughts of the bet were forgotten as the four looked at each other in alarm. By unspoken agreement, Adam was the one to carefully knock on the door, which had been left slightly ajar, and push it a tiny bit more open. 

"Hello?" he called into the room. "Sorry, 'scuse me, but we heard you from outside, and you sounded really upset. Is everything okay?”

Inside the room, Anathema took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand across her eyes. After turning her room upside down, she'd finally come to the conclusion that she'd lost Agnes's tour predictions for good. While it wasn't as if she lived her life by them, they were still a helpful guide to the various situations that could only happen on tour, and she was annoyed to have lost them. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," she called back to whoever had asked after her. Turning around, she saw a young man with a thatch of golden curls—the piccolo player, whose name she didn't know—peering through the cracked-open door. 

"You sure?" he asked, blue eyes concerned. 

"Promise," Anathema replied, and sighed when he still looked at her sceptically. "Did you want to come in? All of you?" she added, seeing the other three kids who had tentatively gathered behind Adam. "I'm sure you have other things to do, though, don't feel you have to stay here."

"Thanks," Adam accepted for all the Them. "I'm Adam, by the way, I don't think we've actually spoken before."

"Anathema," she introduced herself in turn. "Cello."

Adam nodded. "That's Pepper, Wensleydale, who's technically Jeremy, but we all just call him Wensley, and Brian."

Anathema scanned the faces, taking them all in. "Pepper, Pepper… you play the tuba, right?"

"Yup," Pepper agreed gleefully. "I wanted to play trombone, but the stupid guy at the shop said it was too big for a girl, so I asked for the biggest thing they had." The gleam in her eyes went steely. "And I got good at it."

Anathema smiled, slow and approving. "Good."

Pepper grinned back. 

"And you’re the piccolo player,” Anathema said to Adam, who nodded, “but I'm sorry, I don't think I know you boys." 

“Horn bump,” Brian replied cheerfully. "And he’s a violin."

“Violin 2, actually,” Wensleydale added, readjusting his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

“Cool, cool,” Anathema said. “Did you, uh… Was there anything you wanted from me?”

Adam went serious again in an instant. "You said you were alright, but you didn't sound alright. What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

Anathema sighed deeply and pushed her glasses up to rub her eyes with the heels of her hands. 

“I just lost something my cousin gave me," she said, her voice weary. "It’s not that important, though, I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“If you’re upset about it, then it is important,” Adam frowned. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure it’ll come back to you. Brian left his water bottle backstage in Stolpe, and the next day Tracy came up to him just before he got on the bus and gave it back. They check to see if we leave anything behind.”

Anathema smiled weakly. “Thanks, but it’s just a bit of paper. I don’t think they do sweeps for that kind of thing. Even if they did, they’d probably just put it in the bin, anyway.”

Adam shrugged. “You never know, maybe someone picked it up and just hasn’t seen you to give it back yet.”

“Maybe,” Anathema said, humouring him. “Well, let me know if you see it."

"We will," Adam promised for the Them, and the others murmured their agreement.

That matter sorted to Adam's satisfaction, the conversation, once started, flowed and drifted happily. Anathema was asked the same questions as the rest of the Them, and her answers were deemed satisfactory.* From there, the topics of conversation turned to maritime conservation, to environmentalism, to saving the planet through guerrilla tactics—Anathema was something of an eco-warrior, with a taste for the dramatic—to conspiracy theories, to crystal therapy. The crystals were specifically in aid of curing a hangover, as the Them learnt that Anathema’s roommate was out on the piss that night, and if past experience was anything to go by, she would be feeling pretty rough the next morning—and every little helped, when it came to the Irish flu. Anathema, in turn, learnt that the Them had grown up together in a tiny hamlet in Oxfordshire called Tadfield, and had been inseparable for about a decade—among many more things, in the free exchange of chatter. And after an hour or so, the Them left Anathema for their own rooms, all five feeling like they’d made new, staunch friends.

[* “Rocket,” “yes,” and “dugong” respectively.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lettuce/dugong/manatee conversation is ripped almost verbatim from a convo my mates and I had on tour—so what that tells you about me, I don't know...  
Next chapter will be out at some point in the next week (I hope?)! Expect some good old Gabriel-Aziraphale antagonism, and the introduction of four new characters :)


	8. Crescendo, accelerando

_ There's always another way,  _ Aziraphale reasoned brightly.  _ Always. If I tell Gabriel about what's happening, and how I'm trying to fix it by talking to Warlock, he'll help sort it out.  _

That train of thought was why Aziraphale was now standing in front of a musician he still felt slightly intimidated by, minutes before the soundcheck for the second-last concert of the tour, and their last concert in continental Europe, was due to begin. 

"Aziraphale?" Gabriel asked, confusion written clear on his face. 

"I have something to tell you," Aziraphale said.

"...right," Gabriel said dubiously. "Go on, then."

"Well," began Aziraphale, "I suppose it all started when I heard that the Royal Northern lot—you know, Lou's friends, were going to try to go against the Almighty's tempo…"

Five minutes later, the whole story had been told, save for the fact he was working with Crowley, and he watched Gabriel's response anxiously. 

"But I'm convincing Warlock to stick with her tempo, I think, so there won't be a big mess in the concert," he finished, trying to end on a positive note. 

"You don't have to do that, Aziraphale, don't worry about it," the oboist said placatingly. "It's all in hand."

"Wait, you knew already? And don't—don't worry about it?" Aziraphale was flustered and confused. "What do you mean, don't worry about it? The concert will be ruined, Gabriel, what are we going to do?"

“Nothing. We’ll stick to the tempo, and the Royal Northern idiots will be seen as the ones who deliberately flouted the conductor and ruined the piece. The Royal Academy will be seen as the better conservatoire, once and for all.”

Aziraphale was speechless. 

“It’s one concert, Aziraphale,” Gabriel sighed. “It’ll be a bit dicey, but at the end of it, we’ll be in our rightful place in everyone’s minds as the best conservatoire in the country.”

The violist could only shake his head dumbly as Gabriel continued. "I've spoken to a few people, they'll make sure it all goes off how we want it."

Sandy, who had silently moved closer during the exchange, grinned at that, his braces glinting unpleasantly in the stage lights. 

"We can't have a war without War," he said. 

“What?” Aziraphale asked, but Gabriel was already guffawing. 

"We can't have a war without War, that's perfect!" the oboist laughed. "Aziraphale, don't worry about it. You just focus on playing your part right, and we'll make sure everyone knows the Royal Academy is the best conservatoire out there."

He turned to Sandy and clapped the violinist on his shoulder. "You can't have a war… Hah, I don't know how you do it!"

Clearly dismissed, Aziraphale sighed and headed back to his seat. 

_ Are Crowley and I the only ones who care about this concert going well?  _ he thought discontentedly as he picked up his viola.  _ Does everyone else just see it as a way of winning their petty squabbles? We need to save this concert, and nobody else seems to give a flying— _

A sixth sense made Aziraphale start from his thoughts and turn around, spinning out of reach of the violist a few desks back, who lurked at the back of the section with their bow outstretched. Everyone called them Chalky, for their annoying habit of over-rosining their bow, sending up clouds of dust every time they made a bowstroke. Even worse was what they found absolutely hilarious, and was the fate that Aziraphale had just avoided—tapping other players with their bow to leave dusty white streaks on their good performance blacks. Every time the trick was successfully carried out, Chalky would laugh with a noise like a drain choking on badly-flushed leftovers—a laugh that was completely at odds with their petite frame. They hung around with Carmine Zuigiber, the trumpeter most people just called Red; Ray Sable, who was about as skinny as the flute he played; and that one guy at the back of the double basses who always wore a black hoodie, and must be very close to aging out by now—he'd been in the orchestra for as long as Aziraphale could remember. He didn’t know the guy’s first name, but his last name was D'Ath, or something like it. He kept mostly to himself, and had cold blue eyes that made Aziraphale shiver on the few occasions that they’d made eye contact. The four of them were part of some weird new music group, the Four Horsepersons, playing the type of stuff that was designed to make the audience question whether what they were listening to (or watching, or just generally  _ experiencing _ ) was really music at all. They’d been through a few names over the course of their career, Aziraphale remembered, in one case calling themselves by the names of the apocalyptic riders themselves—and with that, Aziraphale realised Gabriel's plan. He’d enlisted the Four Horsepersons to create even more chaos in the concert, turning the whole thing into a disaster of grand proportions. The Four Horsepersons had a penchant for the chaotic, and always sought to push their own agenda, championing new music against the canon. It was almost legend, the time they went so far as to interrupt another ensemble's piece at a recent chamber music festival, turning a standard Beethoven quartet into a flurry of atonality that Ray had, afterwards, bowed and dubbed "Revelations".

He had to tell Crowley. But as it was, the Mattatron stood to tune the orchestra, and Aziraphale could no longer do anything but sit and play. 

*

The rehearsal and the concert both went off without a hitch, which was balm to Aziraphale’s frayed nerves, but even the gentle strains of Dvorak didn’t quite distract him from the thought of what would happen in the next concert. Still, there wasn’t much that could be done until then, apart from keeping faith in Warlock. After the concert, his worries evaporated like brandy on torched crepes Suzette, as Crowley dragged him out to a bar while the rest of the orchestra scattered. The younger musicians had gone back to the hotel, and there were enough bars around to keep the over-18s happy, having splintered off into their friendship groups and spread out into the night. The Four Horsepersons, too, had found one such bar—not one of the better-populated pubs, but a dive, where a bored barmaid wiped out glasses under a flickering bulb, and four bikers, the only other patrons, clustered round a trivia machine. Judging by the expletives they were hurling at the French program, they were English expats who couldn’t understand a word of the questions, and were very frustrated for that exact reason.

“I’ll get drinks, shall I?” Red asked, as the tallest member of their quartet stood and made his way over to the trivia machine, clearing the bikers with a calm, flat look. It shouldn’t have worked, a tall, skinny bassist in his twenties cutting through a group of burly forty-something bikers with a single glance, but there was something about him that commanded instant respect, and somehow, he made it happen. He sat down at the trivia machine and began pressing buttons with lightning speed, causing the screen to flash green and green and green again as he selected the correct answers almost as soon as they came up. 

"'Ow the fuck's 'e doin' that?" one of the bikers asked, stunned.

"In bloody French, too!" another added. 

Back at their table, Ray and Chalky shared a smirk. All four of them had travelled a lot, for various reasons, and learning languages hadn't proved an issue. 

“Alright!” Red announced, returning from the bar with an armful of cocktails. “We have a vodka tonic—”

The tall glass was placed in front of Ray, who nodded in thanks.

“A dirty mojito—”

Chalky accepted the drink with a smile, ignoring the pile of coasters in front of them to let the glass form another ring of condensation on the sticky table.

“A Bloody Mary for yours truly, and an Elvis for His Nibs, whenever he deigns to join us,” Red finished, putting the remaining drinks down and sliding into her seat. A few moments later, the bassist left the trivia machine and the collection of impressed bikers, filling a glass of water for himself on his way back to the table. 

"So, are we set for the concert?" Red asked once he'd sat down. "You all got your stuff?"

"Yeah," Ray said, sliding his sleek new phone onto the table. "Lucky it all came when it did."

The others nodded. Three of the Four Horsepersons had received packages the day before the tour started, and had all packed them to show off to the group. Pure coincidence had meant that their orders were all perfectly suited to Gabriel asking the quartet to cause a disturbance in the NYO’s final concert.

“Alright! Friends, buddies, pals and others, may I present,” Red announced, withdrawing a thin score bound in wine-red leather from her trumpet case and slamming it onto the table with a triumphant thump, “ _ The End of the World. _ ”

The other three Horsepersons oohed and ahhed over the professional-looking part. Red flipped it open to reveal a piece of music that, despite its glossy finish, looked like it had once been nothing more than scraps of notation thrown at a blank page. That was indeed how her composition had started—an old piece of sheet music cut up and scattered, the notes transcribed where they landed in a score that was half traditional and half graphic. 

“We just play that instead of the actual Shosta part. They’re going to hate it,” Red said with a bladed smile. “The notation’s just a guide, as per always, so have fun.”

“Where’d you get the original part from?” Ray asked. He was their usual composer, but was happy to let Red share the fun—her idea had sounded too good to pass up. 

She shrugged. “Dunno where it came from originally, but someone gave it to someone, who gave it to someone, who gave it to someone, etcetera, who gave it to me. It’s a viola part—Milhaud,  _ La Creation du Monde _ . So, I fucked it up, and called it  _ The End of the World _ .”

Ray and Chalky exchanged glances and both nodded, satisfied. 

“I’ll add a bit more chaos into the mix with this,” Ray said, grinning as he opened up an app on his almost paper-thin mobile. The phone itself had arrived the day before tour, but he’d been working on the app for ages. A set of scales tilted from side to side on the loading screen, before the word  _ BALANCE _ , in a sleek sans-serif font, popped up. He tapped the screen, and a digital control panel appeared. “Pol, your speakers?”

The violist—Pol White was their chosen name, although they were quite partial to Chalky as a nickname—reached into their bag and extracted six small bluetooth speakers, each one embossed with the logo of Crown Electrical, and flicked them on. Ray’s app flashed green as it connected, and he pressed a button. A cacophony erupted out of the speakers, and Ray smiled as he swiped his screen, changing the volume of each individual one.

Red nodded appreciatively. “What’s the noise?”

“I recorded myself playing top octave scales and looped it,” Ray replied. “And with Balance, I can set it so each speaker starts at a different part of the recording, so it’s gonna be so microtonal.”

“Nice one,” Chalky said with a broad grin. “Lot of noise pollution.” 

They were usually a person of few words, preferring to fly under the radar and let their actions speak for themselves. They often found that they were deliberately overlooked by people in authority, and they liked it that way—they'd won a reserve spot, only getting into the orchestra when one of the other violists got sick at the last minute and had to withdraw, so they weren't known by that many people. Chalky was just as active a part of the Horsepersons' schemes as the others, though, and delighted in the chance to put their new speakers to good use. 

"So, we're all set?" Red asked, drumming impatient fingers on the cover of her score. As a unit, she, Ray and Chalky turned to the Horsepersons' fourth member. He didn't say a lot, but although they'd never admit it aloud, the other three all looked to him for approval.

The bassist surveyed them, his blue eyes like chips of ice, or distant stars. He finished his glass of water, placed it on the table next to the cocktail he'd left untouched, and nodded once. When he spoke, his voice was deep and sonorous. 

"We'll do it. The final concert, we ride out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm amusing myself with the tiny references in this chapter. Plus, the Other Bikers get a cameo! And can you tell I'm slightly bitter that the Elvis thing wasn't really touched on in the show?  
Good news, all, I'm not dead, just inundated with thesis and audition prep. Better news is that I now have the entire structure planned, it's shaping up to be another four or five chapters depending on how long things run, and the next chapter is almost completely done! It should be up in the next couple of days.  
Fun fact: Red cutting up the Milhaud part was definitely not planned at the beginning of this, or even when I was about five chapters in. I love when my subconscious knits plot together for me!


	9. Serenade

Unlike her roommate, who was once again out sampling the local alcoholic delights, Anathema had retired to her room after the concert, too tired to do much of anything. She'd decided to take a break halfway through packing for the last move of the tour, and was lying on her bed watching YouTube videos when her phone buzzed in her hand. She smiled when she saw that the message was from Adam—she and all the Them had become friends on Facebook as soon as they’d got back to their various rooms. Adam, particularly, hadn’t hesitated in giving her a nickname on their own personal chat, based on one of the conversations they’d had the other night.

*

_ Adam Young _ to  _ worst witch: _ ana are you alone in your room like a boring old lady again?

_ Anathema Device _ to  _ spawn of satan: _ enough of the old lady stuff, tiny underage asshole

_ Anathema Device: _ I’m only 3 years older than you

_ Anathema Device: _ but yes

_ Anathema Device: _ do I want to know why?

_ Adam Young: _ bc we’ve found some dude dying in the foyer and we??? need an adult???

_ Adam Young: _ that's you by the way, we can't find the doctor and you know a lot of stuff

_ Anathema Device: _ oh god

_ Anathema Device _ : yes I’m here 

_ Anathema Device: _ do I have to come down or

_ Adam Young: _ nah it’s okay we’re bringing him up

_ Adam Young: _ he’s not actually dying

_ Adam Young: _ but we have to sign in with shads and mme t in like 2 min and i don’t wanna just leave him on his own

_ Adam Young: _ btw he’s a nyo dude

_ Adam Young:  _ we’re not bringing some random into your room, in case you were worried

_ Anathema Device: _ ngl I was, a bit

_ Adam Young: _ oi rude

_ Adam Young: _ it’s the 4th floor right?

_ Anathema Device: _ yah

_ Anathema Device: _ 419, the one with jasmine painted on the door

_ Adam Young: _ fab we’re outside

*

Anathema opened the door to see the Them supporting a skinny guy about her age who was coughing wildly, his eyes streaming behind black-framed glasses. He flapped a hand at her, trying to communicate both "hi," and "the kids are worrying about nothing, I'll be fine, honestly."

Even if his red face and laboured breathing hadn't given the lie to that silent plea, Anathema had been on the receiving end of Adam Young's aggressively persistent compassion before. She knew the Them wouldn't leave until she'd taken the young man in, so she politely ignored his waving and ushered him into the room. 

"I'll take it from here, guys," she said. "Go get signed in, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Adam nodded and ran off with his friends, throwing a “Thanks, Anathema!” over his shoulder as he went. With a wry smile, Anathema turned away from the door and went to tend to her new guest. He was slightly familiar, and she frowned, trying to place him. She didn't know him, she was sure, but there was something about him that stood out in her memory. She pushed the thought out of her mind and reached for her first-aid kit, which, luckily for all concerned, was sitting at the top of her half-packed suitcase.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “An inhaler? Paracetamol, or an antacid, or…? Agnes said there'd always be some kind of medical issue, so I came prepared.”

She hefted the kit, but her guest shook his head, his coughs beginning to ease. “I’ll… I’ll be right,” he managed to get out. “Just a… stupid mistake…”

He coughed again. “Actually… a glass of water? If I could?”

Anathema nodded, filling a glass and handing it to him. He drank quickly, and some of the red faded from his face.

“What happened?” she asked.

He smiled sheepishly, and cleared his throat. “You’re going to laugh,” he said, his voice much clearer. “It’s such a dumb thing…”

Anathema’s eyes sparkled. “Go on, then.”

“...I was hungry after the concert,” he said, “so I thought I’d grab something to eat on the way back to the hotel. I passed this place called the Little Tibet, so I ducked in and ordered the first thing on the menu.” He smiled again, rueful. “I think it was 90 percent wasabi? Certainly felt like it, anyway. I took a bite, and it just punched me in the throat, and the sinuses, and the brain. That’s when those kids found me in the foyer, and wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m fine, honestly,” he protested again.

Anathema laughed openly, and his lips quirked. “Told you you’d laugh.”

“I’m laughing with you, not at you,” she replied primly, feeling herself warm to his dry and self-deprecating sense of humour, as well as the fact he hadn’t reacted when he'd heard Agnes's name. 

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” he explained. “The thing is, I didn’t even think wasabi was a Tibetan thing, you know? I thought it was Japanese!”

“It is,” Anathema replied, nodding. 

“I rest my case, then! It shouldn’t have been there, it threw me off!”

“Sure looks like it,” Anathema smirked. It was then that memory struck a distant chord in the depths of her brain, and she remembered why he seemed more familiar than most of the orchestra. Back during their rehearsal week in Ede, Anathema had left the rehearsal room to have a quick bathroom break, and on her way back, she'd seen a rather weedy-looking young man—who now, she realised, was the one sitting in her hotel room—having a heartfelt talk to Shadwell. She wasn't an eavesdropper by nature, not precisely, but she took a keen interest in other people, so she'd detoured so she'd be able to hear some of what was going on. 

"I just don't feel like I should be here, you know?" he'd said. "I'm not even a performance major like everyone else here is, and I feel like I've taken a place from someone who actually deserves it."

“If you’re here, you’re here, laddie,” came Shadwell’s voice. “You auditioned, you got in, end of.”

She'd had to go back into rehearsal then, and missed his response. She occasionally wondered if he'd got over his impostor syndrome, but until now, had never had the chance to find out more about him, and ask she did. 

“Well then, surprise wasabi man, do you have an actual name? You know I’m Anathema, you heard Adam say it. I’ve seen you around, but I never actually got introduced.” 

“Trade one weird name for another, huh?” he smiled. “I’m Newt. Newt Pulsifer.”

Anathema paused. "Huh," she said, reevaluating the man in front of her. He was nothing like his brother, if first impressions were anything to go by. The older Pulsifer was brash, quick to anger, and permanently convinced of his correctness in every decision. Newt, on the other hand, seemed genuinely sweet, if self-doubting—happy to make mistakes and learn from them.

"...have I done something wrong?" Newt asked, looking suddenly nervous in the practised way of somebody who spends most of his life in a state of anxiety. 

"No, no," Anathema reassured him. "You're fine, I've just come across your last name before."

Newt nodded. "Shadwell said the same. I guess my brother made a bit of a reputation for himself."

Anathema made a face. "Only in the right circles. My cousin's the 'mad witch,'" she said wryly, quoting an insult from an argument that had become family lore. 

"Huh?" Newt said inelegantly, before his eyes widened in recognition. "Oh! Yeah, I met her once—Agnes, wasn't it? She seemed nice, hope she's doing well for herself."

"Yeah, she's got a job with the London Phil," Anathema said slowly, in case somehow Newt hadn't heard the news. 

It appeared he hadn't. "Whoa, that's awesome for her! Uh, tell her congrats from me, I guess, and that I'm sorry my brother was such an arse."

The gentle patter of rain that had pervaded the entire conversation had grown gradually stronger as the pair talked, without either of them noticing it. Heavy droplets now drummed against the windows, and gusts of wind rattled through the trees outside. 

Newt frowned. "Weird weather, isn't it? The weather on tour has been so perfect until now—too perfect, I guess, we had to have a storm or something sometime."

And with that, the topic of Agnes was dropped, without Anathema having to say a word. She smiled, somehow cheered by the fact that Newt didn't really know or care who Agnes was, and he wasn't treating her differently now he knew who she was related to. Everyone else did—even Aziraphale, who had the best intentions in the world, sometimes gave her the kind of look that meant he was expecting some kind of prodigious talent to spring forth from her bow. Newt just accepted the new information and moved on with barely a second glance, and she felt her heart warm slightly. 

Newt, on the other hand, couldn't believe his luck. Anathema Device—a name that sounded like music in his mind, now he’d heard it in full—was chatting to him, meaningless things about the weather and whatnot, without any sign of wanting to leave the room. The first time he’d seen her properly was when he was in the middle of having a crisis of confidence, which he was positive she’d overheard. After the first flush of embarrassment had faded, and Anathema hadn’t asked him any questions about it, he’d come to appreciate the cellist’s discretion—particularly as, he soon found out, if she had an opinion on something, she wouldn’t hesitate to make herself heard. She had some kind of hangup about her cousin, he now realised—his brother’s old girlfriend, apparently, who seemed nice enough the few times he’d met her—which, as the puzzle pieces fell into place, he recognised to be the issue at the base of a lot of her arguments with her peers. As a chronically insecure person himself, who didn’t feel entirely at home with either music or his chosen discipline of computer science, Newt entertained brief ideas of sharing some of his coping strategies with her—but he didn’t want to presume, and besides, he didn’t understand why people persisted in linking her to her cousin. She was utterly brilliant all by herself, witty, outspoken and gorgeous, and he could hear his heartbeat pound in his ears every time he looked at her. When the kids had brought him to her room, he thought he’d just about die of awkwardness if the wasabi didn’t finish him off first—but now, thanks to some incredible stroke of luck, the one and only Anathema Device was leaning forward in her chair to talk to him, elbows propped on her knees and chin in her hands.

“I know you’re a percussionist, but I think I heard you say once that you’re not a performance major,” she began, looking interested. “What do you actually do?”

“I’m a comp—” Newt started to say automatically, then froze. He wouldn’t say he wasn’t even a proper musician, not in front of this beautiful, talented cellist, who already probably thought he was a bit of a knob. “I’m a composer,” he heard himself finish. “Well, composition student.”

It was better than “computer science major,” with the added benefit of being very nearly the truth. It was the truth in his heart, at least. And he’d tried composing, many times, but the melodies and stunning effects he heard in his head came out disjointed and atonal on the page, and he'd never had the courage to show them to anyone. 

“That’s awesome!” Anathema replied, and despite himself, Newt turned a delicate pink. “You’ll have to show me some of your stuff sometime, I always like to see what composers our age are getting up to.”

Her eyes flashed. “Proper orchestras don’t give new music the respect it deserves. They’re too busy playing the standard canon, it’s just program after program of dead white men. It’s like I was telling Adam the other night, nobody programs it, so people like whatsit, you know, the Four Horses or whatever they’re called, have to go and interrupt things. Not that I agree with that, but it would be nice if we didn’t celebrate some Beethoven birth-or-death-iversary every year, and played something from this century instead, once in a while.”

Newt listened, fascinated. As she spoke, he almost felt confident enough to show her some of his sketches, seeing how passionately she defended works outside the canon. But he wouldn’t—he left all his compositional experiments tucked away in a folder of Sibelius file on his laptop at home, where they belonged. His social anxiety meant he couldn’t show those to someone like Anathema, no matter how much the warm feeling in his chest was telling him it would be a good idea.

She mistook its cause, but Anathema nevertheless saw the slightly glazed look in Newt’s eyes, and trailed off with a rueful grimace. “Sorry, I get a bit caught up in things, once I get on my high horse. Mom tells me I need to learn how to shut up about Causes, sometimes.”

“Are you kidding?” Newt burst out incredulously. “Bugger what your mum thinks, it’s amazing how much you care about this! Honestly, I admire it—you—so much, I wish I could be so invested in something!”

Scepticism and sincerity fought to be the dominant force that tugged a corner of Anathema’s mouth up in a half-smile. “Thanks,” she said, genuine gratitude just edging out sarcasm.

“It’s true,” Newt replied.

It almost looked like Anathema was going to say something more, when a beep and a crash from the direction of the door startled the tender quiet from the room. Newt bit his lip as Anathema’s roommate came in, looking slightly unsteady on her feet, and he rose from the chair. 

“Ana! Who’s this?” the roommate—another cellist, Newt didn’t know her—asked, a delighted grin on her face.

“This is Newt,” Anathema replied, uncharacteristically reticent as she adjusted her glasses.

Newt blinked, seeing that no further introductions would be forthcoming. “I guess that’s my cue,” he said awkwardly.

“I guess so,” she said after a brief pause, looking slightly disappointed. “Uh, hope your wasabi injury is sorted.”

“Yeah, m’fine,” he said. “I’ll, uh, see you round?”

The cellist smiled. “Yeah. I’ve got to see your compositions, remember?”

“Hah, yeah,” Newt nodded, feeling that warm feeling—was it guilt, or was it something more… pleasant? Or could it even be both?—bubble in his chest again as he opened the door. “Well, um. Bye, Anathema.”

“See ya, Newt,” she said. “See you tomorrow!”

She leant against the door after it had closed behind him, listening to her roommate start to tipsily clatter things into a suitcase. “Newton Pulsifer,” she whispered to herself, allowing a small smile to creep onto her face. “Newt, you’re not what I was expecting at all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text convo between Adam and Anathema has been one of my fave things to write so far :)  
No ineffable boys this chapter (they'll be back next time!), but have some wholesome Anathema/Newt getting-to-know-each-other instead.


	10. Presto, subito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of things start to happen at once.

Finally, the tour had come to its end, back home in London at the Barbican Centre. Those who lived in London were welcome to leave the group and stay at their homes, and those from out of the city were just as welcome to remain in the tour-organised accommodation for one last night. Although Aziraphale could have gone home, he didn’t want to miss his last evening with Crowley. As such, the next day, the pair left their shared room and made their way to the final rehearsal together, drinking in every moment of each other’s company.

Apart from a plot that went around the orchestra, resulting in all but a handful of musicians turning up in passable impressions of the conductor’s distinctive white jacket that she wore to every rehearsal, the last soundcheck didn’t feel as special as Aziraphale had hoped for. Instead, it felt almost flat, despite the quiet jangling of his nerves every time the violist thought about what was going to happen with the concerto. The rehearsal passed in a blur, with nothing remarkable, for good reasons or bad, breaking up the usual plan of the run.

After the soundcheck finished, Aziraphale and Crowley had hung back, chatting. Still deep in conversation, the pair finally left the hall to go prepare for the concert, tracing their former path through the winding corridors of the Centre. 

“Hold up, here comes trouble,” Crowley said with a grim look behind him. Hastur and Ligur were approaching, and he drew Aziraphale into a dark passageway that split off from the main corridor.

“I really don’t want to talk to them right now,” he explained to Aziraphale’s questioning look.

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied, and left it at that. 

It was lucky, then, that the trombonists were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t even see the pair in front of them disappear.

“We’ll be fine, even though we didn’t run it, right?” Hastur asked in hushed tones as he passed Aziraphale and Crowley’s hiding place.

“‘Course,” Ligur replied. “Lou knows what we’re doing. We’ve just gotta trust him, and we’ll win.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, confused, as the two trombonists continued past the corridor without seeing them. The orchestra  _ had  _ run the concerto—it was the only piece they had looked at in full, that soundcheck. Which only meant—

“It’s not the concerto,” Crowley breathed as the penny dropped, his amber eyes frantic. 

Aziraphale felt adrenaline surge in the pit of his stomach. The one thing they knew—the only thing they knew—was that it couldn't be the concerto that Lou was trying to change. All their efforts with Warlock had been for nothing. 

“We’ll think of something,” Crowley said, his voice urgent. “We have to.”

“But we don’t have time!” Aziraphale countered. “Crowley, I— I don’t know—”

Crowley gripped his arm, startling the violist from the panic he was working himself into. “We’ll do it. Somehow. I, um… hang on, just wait for a mo, I’ll get changed into my suit, and then we’ll work it out. Alright?”

His only response was a blank stare.

“You’ll be alright?” Crowley repeated, and finally, Aziraphale nodded. “Good.”

And with that, Crowley was gone, darting off to put down his clarinet and grab his suit bag to get ready for the concert, and ready to make some sort of a plan. Aziraphale, watching him go, wished he could have that kind of fire, that kind of optimism. Instead, he felt like everything around him had slowed to a crawl. Walking over to his case, he numbly set his viola down. His hands dropped listlessly to his sides—then paused, as he felt something flat and smooth through the fabric of his pocket. With a frown, he reached into his pocket, pulling out what he found to be a piece of folded paper.  _ To Anathema _ , read the slanted script on the front of the note, and Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat. Two concerts ago, he’d found the prophecies of Agnes Nutter on the bus and slipped them into his pocket, to give back to Anathema when he next saw her. On getting into his room, however, he’d promptly forgotten about the small bit of paper, and it had stayed in his pocket, unnoticed until now—now, the perfect time for them to reappear. If it was all going to kick off tonight, Agnes, with her years of experience in the orchestra, certainly would have had something to say.

The fire in his belly he’d been so desperate for finally kindled, Aziraphale opened the note, scanning through it quickly for any scrap of advice. Sure enough, one line of the neat cursive stood out as if illuminated.  _ If LM is still in the orchestra, it'll be his last year, and shit  _ _ will _ _ go down. Knowing him, any funny business will be in the final piece.  _

Aziraphale's eyes flew wide. The symphony, of course! The snare could just run away with the tempo in the second and fourth movements, and the orchestra would follow. He put Agnes's prophecies in his case and picked up his viola out of instinct. It was a last-ditch effort, but he knew what he had to do.

"Aziraphale?" the concertmaster asked when the violist quietly drew him aside. "Isn't it a bit late to be checking bowings?"

"It's not about bowings," Aziraphale said, only managing to keep his voice steady thanks to sheer force of will. "I need to speak to the Almighty."

The Mattatron just looked at him blankly. "I'm her link to the orchestra—anything you'd ask her, you can ask me."

"It's about the Shostakovich," Aziraphale started hesitantly. “The, um, the RNCM people? Bee, and Lou, and their lot? They’re going to work against the conductor.”

“I know, Aziraphale,” the Mattatron replied calmly. “I’ve spoken to Gabriel, we’ve got it all in hand.”

“Have you? Or are you just going to go along with it so the Academy can look good?” Aziraphale demanded, uncharacteristic heat rising in his cheeks.

The concertmaster’s gaze was steady. “That’s the point of what we do. To win in this industry—and it’s a war out there, Aziraphale—we need to make sure that we, and only we, look good.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Look, we could stop this!” he burst out. “I was wrong before—I told Gabriel that it would be the concerto, but it’s not, it’s going to be the Shostakovich, in the second or fourth movement! We could still make this concert a success!”

“It will be a success.” The Mattatron’s hand came firmly down on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “For us. Go get ready for the concert, Aziraphale. As your concertmaster, I expect to see you on this stage at 6:50, ready to play, with no complaint. Yes?”

Aziraphale sighed. Even though it wasn’t the truth, there was only one possible answer he could give. “Yes.”

As the Mattatron walked away, Aziraphale frantically scanned the room for anyone—anyone at all—who could possibly help avert the crisis. His eyes landed on a stocky figure wrapped in a khaki mac, and he exhaled in mingled relief and apprehension.

"Shadwell, do you know where I can find the conductor?" he asked, a last, desperate resort. Out of preference, he would have gone to Tracy, but she was nowhere to be found. Shadwell was the only person left in the hall who might have known the answer to his question.

The residential coordinator grumbled something under his breath rather less than inaudibly, and Aziraphale blinked, trying not to feel offended. Shadwell felt that way about all “southerners,” he knew, and by extrapolation, appeared to live somewhere in the Arctic Circle.

“She has a room, doesn’t she?” Aziraphale prompted, after the grumbling didn’t yield a response.

“Aye,” Shadwell said eventually. “Ye’ll no’ get this right, none of ye soft lot could read a map, much less take directions, so I’ll make it as clear as possible.”

Aziraphale nodded dutifully.

“Weel. Ye head through there, go straight until ye can see the bells out the window. Turn right, then turn right again when ye get to the room wi’ all the bookshelves. Then it’s left, left, third on the right, take two more lefts and another right, and her room’s the one wi’ the big old candelabra opposite. Got it?”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to process the stream of information.

“Bell, book, and candle, laddie. That’s all you’ve got to remember.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, genuinely grateful for the help, as bafflingly given as it was. With a final nod, he set off into the warren of corridors.

*

“Gabe, have you seen Aziraphale?” Sandy asked as he put rosin on his bow in the warm-up room. He was sitting with the rest of the Royal Academy clique—Michael was finishing her makeup, peering into the mirror, Uriel was stretching, and Gabriel was swabbing out his oboe, ensuring there wouldn’t be a single gurgle in the performance.

“No, why?” He looked up from his instrument and peered around the room, only to see a distinct lack of fluffy white-blonde hair. “He’s been very quiet lately. I’d almost thought we’d lost him, he was getting very worked up over the Royal Northern thing, but I think I convinced him to let it lie.”

“Hope so,” Sandy replied.

“I’ll have a check,” Uriel offered, to Gabriel’s approving nod.

“He’s usually quiet,” Michael said, “but this kind of quiet—him disappearing to God knows where—could be dangerous. He’s never really fitted in with us. Maybe it would be better if he did do his own thing—we could rid ourselves of him, too.”

“No, he’s still an Academy student,” Gabriel said firmly. “If he doesn’t stick to the plan, we won’t have a united front. He could ruin us all.”

Moments later, Uriel returned from her scouting. “Can’t find him anywhere,” she reported. “Him, or his boyfriend in the black glasses.”

“Crawly,” Sandy breathed in distaste. “Royal Northern.”

Gabriel’s face was stony. “We need to find him.”

“Wait a moment,” Michael said, a gleam appearing in her tastefully gold-lined eyes. “Let me check the backchannels.”

Gabriel smirked. “Is that the chat that doesn’t technically exist?”

“Yes,” Michael said coolly, unlocking her phone and opening an app. “And I’ll thank you not to pass comment for once, if it’s the only thing that saves our reputation.”

“Fine, fine,” Gabriel said, and paused for a moment. “Anything yet?”

The reply was terse. “No.”

*

_ Words with Friends Message Log _

_ [Sunday August 2, 6:39pm] _

_ Whitewings: _ Are you corrupting our players? 

*

“He hasn’t replied,” Michael said. “I’m going to check our last few messages to see if there’s been any clues.”

*

_ [Wednesday July 29, 8:04pm] _

_ Whitewings: _ That’s not a real word.

_ karma_x5: _ tell that to the wwf dictionary

_ karma_x5: _ your just jealous bc im 30pts ahead

_ karma_x5: _ suck itttttttt

_ Whitewings: _ I will get you back for this.

_ \--- _

_ [Saturday August 1, 11:51am] _

_ karma_x5: _ oi

_ karma_x5: _ oi oi oi 

_ karma_x5: _ its your turn to play

_ karma_x5: _ still

_ karma_x5:  _ youve not still got the shits on right

_ karma_x5: _ swear to anything titmouse is a real word

_ karma_x5: _ a bird?? or smth??? idk

_ Whitewings: _ There, I’ve played. Happy?

_ Whitewings: _ And on a triple word score no less. I believe I’m now in the lead.

_ Whitewings: _ O:-)

_ karma_x5: _ wanker

_ Whitewings: _ To quote… you, I think it was:

_ Whitewings: _ “suck itttttttt”

*

“I can’t see anything,” Michael said, still scrolling. At that moment, her phone pinged, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Finally.”

Gabriel watched her intently. “And?”

*

_ [Sunday August 2, 6:39pm] _

_ Whitewings: _ Are you corrupting our players? 

_ [6:43pm] _

_ karma_x5: _ the fuck are you on about? 

_ Whitewings: _ Aziraphale. He and your clarinettist have been spending a lot of time together this tour.

_ karma_x5: _ no duh

_ karma_x5: _ theyve been going out for like a year and a half

_ karma_x5: _ this chat was meant for me to bug you about playing yr fkn words

_ karma_x5: _ believe it or not i actually enjoy this? the good gossip and even the crap argumnets

_ karma_x5: _ its fun talking to you without having to bring the fkn ram/rncm bullshit into it

_ karma_x5: _ so why do you think id give a flaming turd about stirring up crap with them two

_ karma_x5: _ thats old news

_ karma_x5: _ plus hasturs bitchy about it enough for the both of us

_ Whitewings: _ Because they’ve both gone missing.

_ Whitewings: _ Gabriel, Uriel, Sandy and I have checked everywhere, and we can’t find either of them.

_ karma_x5: _ prolly havin a snog

_ Whitewings: _ We know about your plan, there’s no point playing dumb. We won’t stand in your way, we just can’t afford to have one of our RAM players defect, and make us look bad.

_ karma_x5: _ wait

_ karma_x5: _ we both know crowleys a twat

_ karma_x5: _ who says azirafknhardtospell hasnt convinced him to jump ship

_ karma_x5: _ fuck

_ karma_x5: _ soz m, gotta go

_ karma_x5: _ need to find n beat the shit outta that bitchass snake

*

“He’s going to find Crowley,” Michael reported. “He says that Crowley might have defected, but I think it’s just a diversion. In any case, he and Hastur will flush him out of hiding soon enough.”

Gabriel smiled thinly. “Well, they know their crawly little creep of a clarinettist best. If he and Aziraphale are together, all we have to do is wait til they find him. Aziraphale will come running, and we’ll teach him what happens if he tries to betray the good name of the Academy.

*

If Aziraphale  _ was  _ with Crowley, however, he wouldn’t have been quite so frantic as he in fact was. In the bowels of the Barbican Centre, as he passed passageway after passageway, each one looking the same as the last, all he could think of was Agnes’ prediction. _ _

_ Any funny business will be in the final piece.  _ The line kept running through his head, spurring him onwards, but in the dark corridors backstage, the violist was completely lost. Shadwell's directions had turned him around in a circle, and he had no idea how to get back to the stage, much less the Almighty's room. He couldn't even call someone for help—the reception this far into the old stone building was nonexistent, and he stared at the lack of bars in the upper corner of his phone's screen with mounting despondency. He had no idea where he was, and he felt the icy hand of fear twist his stomach into a knot as he checked the pocketwatch tucked into his waistcoat. 6:52. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to get back before the concert started. That realisation weighing heavily on his shoulders, his usually strict verbal filter couldn't prevent the words that slipped out on a small sigh, quiet and heartfelt. 

"Oh, fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The WwF chat between Michael and Ligur was surprisingly fun to write :)  
Plus, we have a chapter count now! Since I'm at the point now where I can see the light at the end of this little story, I'd just like to say a word of thanks to everyone who's been reading. This is officially my most-read, most-kudosed, most-commented-on fic! It's nowhere near being a big player in the Good Omens fic leagues, but thanks to all of you for thinking this very niche AU was worth a click. Every kudos and comment brings me joy :)  
Also! There will be a short Christmas fic set in this same 'verse coming out shortly—I'm not abandoning this one (definitely not with just three chapters left!), but I was in London last week, and certain things gave me ideas. It'll be set the Christmas after this tour, but there won't be any plot spoilers. Expect text conversations (Aziraphale gets messenger!), fluff, long discussions about Love Actually, and Christmas lights galore.


	11. Stretto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ate'nt dead!

Deep in the backstage corridors, Aziraphale wandered, completely directionless. He had no clue where he was, nor any idea of how to get to where he needed to be. All he could do was walk

“Aziraphale?” came a voice from the open door he’d just passed.

Startled, Aziraphale turned, poking his head into the room, and swallowed guiltily. “Anderson,” he greeted the room’s occupant, his voice bright but uneasy.

Anderson, who much like Crowley was known on a last-name basis only, was the member of operations staff who doubled as the orchestra’s librarian. While normally Aziraphale got on well with the operations team, and as a rule was entirely charmed by librarians, his relationship with Anderson had never been particularly friendly—not since three years ago, when a certain Milhaud part had gone mysteriously missing without any kind of explanation. 

“What are you doing here?” Anderson demanded. “You should be onstage, with the others! There’s a concert about to start!”

“I know, but I’m—”

“But you’re what?” Anderson cut him off. “Aziraphale, it’s going to take longer than you think, you have to go all the way around. I know we’re practically next to the stage, here, but the corridors…”

As the librarian lectured, Aziraphale found his mind wandering as he tried to pin down some kind of route to get back. If they were near the stage, and he’d come from the north side of the building, then he just had to… go through the door on the other side of the room, by the looks of it.

“Sorry,” he interrupted a surprised-looking Anderson, “but where does that door lead?”

“Directly backstage,” Anderson replied. “But you can’t go that way, that part of the stage is off limits to everyone except the stage crew.” 

His eyebrows flew high as Aziraphale made a dash across the room. “Aziraphale! What are you doing? Stop that!”

“I have to get back!” the desperate violist called over his shoulder as he fled through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

*

Backstage—the true backstage, that was literally behind the stage—was far darker than the corridors had been, and he peered into the gloom to little avail. He heard the voices of people moving around before he could see them, and he followed the sound as his eyes adjusted. The current speaker had an Australian accent, and appeared to be directing coworkers.

"Citron, Marv, come on, we've got to get all this loaded."

His eyes finally adjusted, Aziraphale rounded a corner to see three men dealing with the folded-up remains of the cardboard boxes that had been the portable wardrobes. He recognised them as the stage crew who had been with them all tour—they were fundamental to the logistics of the whole thing, despite the fact he’d never spoken to them properly.

“Hang on, Johnny,” one of them said, his West Indian accent notable, and turned to Aziraphale. “Aren’t you meant to be out there? I’ve seen you round the orchestra, what are you doing back here?”

“I’m a bit lost,” Aziraphale answered sheepishly. “I meant to go see the conductor, but I got all turned around.”

The third man nodded sagely. “Easy to do, bud. Looking for her will get you into all kinds of strange places. If you just got the J-Buddy app I’m developing, you’d—”

“Come off it, Marv,” the Australian—Johnny, presumably—cut in with a roll of his eyes, before turning to Aziraphale. “Ignore him, he’s got some weird pyramid scheme of a business, I’m surprised he hasn’t got all you lot to buy in. Look, you’re in a bit of a dead end here, but if you go that way, you’ll be able to get out.”

“And there’s phone reception, too,” Marv added. “Toll free.”

As the first speaker—Citron—shook his head and jabbed Marv in the ribs in response to what was clearly an in-joke between the stage crew, Aziraphale smiled at the first piece of good news he’d heard all afternoon. “Thank you,” he said warmly, then hurried off in the direction they’d indicated, leaving the three men to bicker amusedly among themselves.

*

Meanwhile, in a small courtyard he’d found off the main warmup room backstage, Crowley was panicking. His boyfriend had been missing since he came out of the toilets after getting changed as quickly as possible. A glance around had revealed that Aziraphale’s case was left open, with his viola nowhere to be found. There were scant minutes to go til the concert, and worst of all, he wasn't answering his phone. Crowley took a nervous drink from his water bottle as he flipped a small white square between his fingers. The piece of paper was the only thing that had been in Aziraphale's case, and he turned it over and over in his hands like a talisman, hoping that it could somehow summon the violist back before the concert. 

"Oi, flash bastard."

The rough voice jolted Crowley from the anxious spiral his thoughts had drifted into, and he looked back at the open doorway with a grimace. 

"Hastur. Ligur. Now's not really the time, unless you can tell me where Aziraphale is."

Ligur sneered. "Don't come on like a dickhead, dickhead. That  _ angel _ of yours has got in your head. You're gonna betray us, aren't you?"

"What?" Crowley sputtered. "I don't— What are you talking about?"

“The plan, arsehole, the plan!” Hastur said forcefully. “You’re copping off with the Academy wanker, and he’s convinced you not to go along with Lou’s plan for the concert!”

“Hastur, honestly, that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now,” Crowley pleaded. “Just tell me where Aziraphale is, and we can let all this go.”

“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” Hastur sneered. “Well, we ain’t gonna do that.”

“Yeah,” Ligur agreed, stepping in front of Hastur to get threateningly close to Crowley. “We’re gonna take you to Lou, and he’s gonna make sure you do what we need.”

The words, and the invasion of personal space, had their desired effect. Crowley’s adrenaline levels kicked up another two notches, his already-frantic heart racing hummingbird-fast. However, startling a stressed Crowley was in no way a good idea. The clarinettist’s last two firing brain cells, already overworked, decided to give up any semblance of common sense—and so on some level, it must have seemed like a good idea for him to do what he did. This was, unfortunately, throwing the entire contents of his already-open water bottle over Ligur.

Time froze. Ligur stood in front of him, drenched and dripping, his white shirt turning translucent. The tableau would have been comical, if Crowley’s mind wasn’t entirely swamped by a profane chorus of nervousness. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. 

“You bastard!” Hastur roared, and the spell broke. Crowley’s brain kicked back into overdrive, and he pushed past the trombonists, escaping into the relative safety of the green room. 

Frantic, with the folded piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand, Crowley shoved himself into a tight corner at the far end of the room, putting as many people as he could between himself and his possible pursuers. He took a few shaky breaths, trying to stem the tide of adrenaline that was pounding through his veins, and nearly jumped out of his skin as something vibrated against his leg. He snatched his phone out of his pocket and answered it with clumsy hands.

“Hello?”

“Crowley?” came the slightly flustered voice from the other end.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley exclaimed, delighted. “Aziraphale, where are you?”

“I’ve had a bit of a mix-up, my dear,” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “I tried to find the Almighty, but I got lost backstage instead.”

“Angel—” Crowley began.

“No, it’s okay,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I’m okay, Crowley, and I have a plan, I just need to—”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley couldn’t stop himself from saying. “I thought you were going to miss the concert, I thought you’d just—gone…”

He trailed off, and Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ll be there,” he promised. “I just wish I had Agnes’s notes on me, I’m sure she’d have included something about ways to get around backstage.”

“Agnes’s…?” Crowley began hesitantly. “There was a bit of paper in your case, you mean this? I have it with me, I didn’t know what it was, but I thought you might want it, so I grabbed it!”

“That’s it!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and Crowley could tell from his voice that the violist was beaming. He felt his lips turn up in an answering smile, which only got stronger when he heard Aziraphale’s next optimistic words.

“Oh! Crowley, there’s someone here, I’ll see you soon!” 

The call clicked off before Crowley had a chance to reply, but he felt his heart lift slightly nevertheless. Aziraphale was alright. Now all he had to deal with was his own mess.

Carefully, he took a look around the green room. Seeing no trace of Hastur or Ligur, he dared to let some of the tension in his shoulders ease off, and he slunk out of the corner he’d wedged himself in, heading over to his clarinet case.

“What happened out there?” a voice from behind him asked, and he nearly jumped out of his skin before realising it was only Anathema.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” Crowley replied tersely.

Anathema shrugged. “Only, you came sprinting in here, followed by the demon duo, who looked like they were out for blood. You’re safe, by the way—Lisa’s taken them to the bathroom to dry Ligur’s shirt with the hand dryer, or something.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

“We’ve gotta go on in a second, though,” Anathema remarked. “Hope they’re ready in time.”

She frowned. “Hang on, where’s Aziraphale? You two are normally joined at the hip.”

Crowley smiled, summoning up a confidence that, even after the phone call, he didn’t entirely feel. “He’ll be here.”

*

Aziraphale, having ended the call as soon as he heard a familiar voice down the corridor, was also feeling slightly more buoyant. The voice resolved itself into an equally familiar figure, whose colourful scarf was both instantly recognisable, and a sight for sore eyes.

“Aziraphale?” Tracy called out as soon as she saw him. “Oh, thank god!”

“I got a bit lost,” Aziraphale called back, repeating the explanation for what felt like the hundredth time.   
Her response, however, was not as well-worn as he was expecting. “I’m not surprised, knowing how my Mr S gives directions,” the residential coordinator said with a shake of her head. “Come on, let’s get you back to the green room.”

This was a breath of fresh air for Aziraphale, who nearly clapped his hands with relief. “Oh, wonderful! Thank you!”

Tracy smiled, starting to lead him forwards. “No problem. Rounding up the last couple of musicians is an excuse to get away from Beryl Ormerod, anyway.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, despite his tension. The overbearing woman was notorious for cottoning on to Tracy, as she seemed to think that having a shared interest in music—her husband, Ron, used to be a violinist, and she came to all the youth orchestra concerts she could—made them bosom friends. 

“Glad I could rescue you in that respect, at least,” Aziraphale smiled.

“We’re rescuing each other, love,” Tracy replied. “As soon as my Mr S told me he’d given you directions, I knew there’d be no chance you were anywhere near where you wanted to be.”

“Well, I don’t want to speak ill of your husband,” Aziraphale demurred, “but, um…”

Tracy laughed openly before he had a chance to think of a tactful way to finish his sentence. “Don’t worry about it! You’ve got to take the bad with the good, and we’re honest about it with each other—enough for me to say that I love him dearly, but clarity isn’t one of his strong suits.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Alright, that’s a good way of putting it.”

*

Before too long, Aziraphale and Tracy reemerged into the lights of the green room, and the violist almost wept when he saw the other musicians still milling about and chatting. He wasn’t too late. He wouldn’t miss the concert.

Of course, the concert itself provided an entirely new set of problems, particularly as his quest to find the Almighty yielded no success—but they all seemed to melt away as he felt Crowley’s wiry arms wrap around him, and he breathed a long sigh of pure relief.

“I’m so glad you made it in time,” Crowley muttered into Aziraphale’s hair. Everyone else seemed to fade into the background when he’d looked over at the door to backstage one last, hopeless time, and seen the familiar shock of pale curls standing out in the blackness. He’d run over without even putting down his clarinet, and its bell cut into the back of Aziraphale’s jacket, much as the curve of the blonde’s viola pressed against his side—but he hardly minded. Aziraphale was back, and they were together—and together, they would be able to face whatever came next.

Around them, the buzz of chatter melded into the sounds of purposeful movement as the pair broke away from each other. The other performers were streaming to the stairwells, getting ready to go on stage.

Crowley had a flash of recollection then, and started to reach into his pocket. “Angel! Your paper!” he began excitedly, but Aziraphale stilled his hand.

“It can wait til interval,” Aziraphale said intently, before placing his hand on Crowley’s lapel, straightening the jacket with a fussy little motion Crowley loved. He smoothed the creases out of his own smart blacks, then joined the lines heading to the stage, viola in hand.

“We’ve got til the symphony, after all,” he said with an encouraging smile. “And you’re the best at coming up with last-minute plans.”

Crowley couldn’t help the quirk of a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I guess so, angel. I guess we’ll think of something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not abandoning this fic!" she says, then proceeds to go on hiatus for a good six months... Oof, sorry, all. I had a fun time prepping my recital, then getting my thesis ready to submit (submitted as of two weeks ago!), and with everything else going on, this just... sat there. Now, though, I've got more time, and more inclination to write for fun, wahoo! No promises on an upswing in posting speed, but with two chapters to go, it shouldn't be too much longer.   
Hope y'all are keeping safe out there!


End file.
